


The Old God Paradigm Shift

by Washedawaycloud



Series: Evolution Universe [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Scion (Tabletop RPG)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety Attacks, Aphrodite + Ares Relationship parallels, Blood and Gore, Blood-Adoption, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Anachronism, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Chthonic Gods, Complicated Relationships, Cross-Species Relationships, Cross-cultural, Cultural Differences, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death, Dual Inquisitors, Duality, Elvhen Language, Elvhen Pantheon, Emotional Manipulation, Evolution of Gods, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fade Dreams, Fade Sex, Gore, Ichor, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Manipulation, Medical Procedures, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Multi, Multiple Relationships, Necromancy, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Pagan Gods, Pantheon Politics, Persephone + Hades Relationship parallels, Persephone themes, Politics, Polyfidelity, Pop Culture, Pre-Relationship, Propaganda, Rape Culture, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, References to Orisha Religion & Lore, Regicide, Slavery, Slow Romance, The Fade, Titan Spawn, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, ancient gods, universal crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29404323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Washedawaycloud/pseuds/Washedawaycloud
Summary: Ava Cypress and Nephele Ceres aren't what they appear, but no one will take them at their word. Solas might, but he's hiding things from them that can't be ignored.From fighting for freedom from Titans and their Spawn to fighting for the freedom of a world from an unknown assailant. It isn't easy being a God. Especially when everyone believes, but no one believes you. Especially when you have the same mother but claim a different one as twins.Thedas isn't ready for them, No Earth-Origin Gods are ready for the needs of Thedas.Formerly: Pull me Closer
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Inquisitor/Iron Bull, Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Female Inquisitor/Varric Tethras, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Inquisitor, Fen'Harel | Solas/Original Female Character(s), Varric Tethras/Original Character(s), Varric Tethras/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Evolution Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2185182
Comments: 28
Kudos: 50





	1. I. Begin Again

Ava taps the flat of her blade against her greave. The battlefield before her is a cruel mockery of her home. Cities, she had found, always seemed to adhere to the concept of hellscape now. They are centuries into this war. When they had been children, the war was for Earth, the Mortal realm. Now, the fight is for survival. 

She casts a look over what had once been Miami, now being retaken by nature. For fifteen years in these streets and communities, she and Nephele had done their mother’s bidding in the shadows. They had battled titan spawn, fended off attacks from jealous, or insane half siblings, and destroyed the children of other gods. All to curry favor with their respective godly parent. Fifteen years before Ichor had overtaken the majority of their blood, their bodies and they’d take the mantle of demi-gods, rather than simply god produced scions. 

Nephele is crouched some twenty or so yards from her, hands in the soil, Basil wound around her arm. While Ava was life or in her more vengeful moments, death of seed and womb, Nephele lorded over flora in life, and mortals in death. Two sides of the same coin. Partners in nearly all aspects of their lives. Sisters. Twins. The face that looks up from the soil, is the face that stares back from behind a helmet worn popularly some three millennia or so ago. 

“This feels wrong.” 

“Unnecessary but accurate observation.” Nephele quips. 

“They’re here,” Lucian, Nephele’s elder half sibling intones by her left and Basil hisses in agreement. The air tasted of corruption. Titan spawn, but no Titans, or their arrival would have been heralded by something much flashier. 

A seething darkness appears from the ruins of a Jamba juice, and Ava strides forward to be beside Nephele. There is no immediate attack. Nephele’s shamblers wait in their preternatural stillness, their siblings who had banded to their cause, cleaved to their banner stood with quiet murmurs. None acted without word from one of the sisters, as it should be. 

“Aphrodite has fallen,” the darkness hisses, stepping into the light. There is a human-like from in the mass, eyes that glow menacingly. “The Queen of the Underworld finally rendered to dust beside the God.”

The twins stare stone faced at the scout. They must be a scout of some nature, or perhaps a messanger, there is no sign, of yet, of an army. The taunt, or announcement, is no surprise. Ava has been hearing prayers and cries for revenge on errant lovers for months now. With Nephele hearing her first petitions for death just last week. They knew what had happened, they knew they were the siblings who had risen above the rest. 

Their favor had been great, their ichor the strongest, their father’s blood the weakest. Or, perhaps, in simpler terms, they were the most deterimined to not die and not be cast from the stage. 

“Is that all,” Ava asks in a droll tone that carries across the divide. “All this way, and you just wanted to tell us our Mothers are dead?” Her head turns, eyes settling on Eddie with his wings, then over to Lucian who looks too much like death even on his best days. “You’ll find none here that mourn the loss.” 

Her head turns forward once more, taking in the spawn who hisses in annoyance. She catches the scent of metal on the wind, molten metals. There are children of Hepheastus here, and that was a problem. The Forge God hated them, her most of all. Never mind she was not her Aphrodite, he placed her sins squarely on Ava’s shoulders. 

Nephele shifts, leather and metal creaking while the fabric of her under body armor scratches and rasps. Her undead shift, finally, bones creaking, rattling breaths sounding. “Long live the Gods of Love and Death.”

Her cry ripples through their army and then silence reigns once more. The shadows have increased on the battle field, there are keen cries that add to a chorus of sibliant hissing. The scent of metal is stronger. It makes the women tense. 

All of this, the draw back to where they began, where they  _ met _ , the announcement of their ascension, which had been kept fairly quiet - it is a trap. They are simply waiting for it to spring. Ava would laugh, as the rain starts, an aesthetic drizzle that picks up into a down pour. It always rains on days there is death. The Overworld mourning, perhaps.

A grenade launches, a black mark in a darkened wine colored sky. 

“Attack!” Nephele’s voice cracks, cutting into the air. 

Living and dead surge forward, the trap sprung as Hephaestus’ sons swarm them from the sides. The sisters stay together, fighting back ot back, side by side. A boon, for them, when the world rips itself in two and they are sucked into green nothingness. 

** * * * * * * * * * **

“From one war, into another.” Nephele sighs in her quiet manner, leaning heavily on her sister as they stare into the sundered sky. She’s never seen anything like it, and the Titans, their Spawn, hell the other Gods are all quite creative in their destruction. 

“Are you truly surprised?” Ava asks tiredly. “It wouldn’t be our lives, if there wasn’t peril laid at our feet.” 

The rip, or hole in the sky shudders, metors fall, and a crack like no other sounds through the valley, making the ground shake and people scream. It makes the marks on their hands tear open more and they are knocked to the ground with the searing pain of it. They are caught completely off guard by it, by pain like that. It had been so long since they’d experienced feeling like that. 

They have been more God than Mortal for the better part of their long lives now. Pain was a distant memory, a nightmare that visited them on only their worst nights. The Meanid, the unending walk without food or water to the gates of Elysium…

“We call it the Breach,” the woman, who sounds suspiciously Russian block, tells them as she kneels with them in the dirt and snow. “It grows and so too do your marks. It is killing you both.”

Ava’s first instinct is to scoff or laugh, or perhaps some awkard combination of both at once. They are  _ Gods _ . Death no longer stalks them from the hands of Mortals, or Mortal weilded magics. Even the thought of death no longer frightens her. The idea of being killed by a hole in the sky?

It’s offensive, laughable, and utter bullshit. After all they’d fought. After killing Mad nymphs at sixteen, after felling a Titan at twenty - a  _ rip _ in the  _ sky _ was what would take her?

“Do you still think we did this?” Nephele tilts her head, watching Cassadra, this apparent Seeker, carefully. “You think we would consign ourselves to death rather than victory?” 

What a strange concept. These people, this world, they are much simpler than Nephele is able to truly comprehend. She can see no medical tent that she would recognize, she feels no healing that would be as those of Ava’s purview would wield. This place is heavy, and feels almost oily. Like the air slides and sticks to the skin. 

“Neph.” 

“No. No more death, Ava. Surely it wears on you. This is not part of your nature.” 

“No. But, it is the  _ basis _ of yours.” Her sister hisses as Cassandra clears her throat in irritation.

“Speaking in a language that no one else present knows will win you no favors here. You can prove your innocence. All I can offer, if you survive, is a fair trial.” 

“Well,” Ava snarks, as she shoves herself back onto her feet. “That’s better than back home.” 

Nephele snorts inelegantly as she stands as well, Basil finally making himself known, moving like a shot out of a bush and coiling up her leg. Cassandra blanches, and Nephele can’t really blame her. For all Basil’s beauty, people do not generally seem to care for him, and he has grown quite large as her following has grown. The more belief in her, the more power she holds, the more powerful he is by extension. 

“Indeed, a fair trial would be welcome.”

** * * * * * * * * **

Ava sighs into a flagon of wine. Wine being liberally used in the case of this glass of poorly fermented, soured grapes. Looking around the Singing Maiden, she hides a shudder of growing distress. This world, it is...disgusting in many aspects, and distressing in almost all others to say the very least. Nephele looks as uncomfortable as Ava feels. 

For days after waking, it had seemed their divinity had been truly lost. They had sustained injury during the mission to stabilize the Breach. Truly they had tried to close it entirely, but their will was stretched thin, and the world was just too heavy. Their abilities were mired under layers of something, and they could not do as they had planned. Which meant, they were stuck here in the town nestled against a mountain range, no longer Prisoners per say, but without reassurances they were truly free. 

Those days where they had no idea of their capabilities had been quite upsetting. For young Gods, the loss of status is a blow like no other, they are not exempt from that. But, just the night before last, Ava had heard the whispers of prayer. Many of them. So many. Too many, by her mildly panicked estimation. 

“We cannot leave,” Nephele whispers, in Greek as she sits with her own brew. From the smell of it, some manner of tea. Ava wrinkles her nose. 

The pair of them had been figuring out which languages were normal here. Common was close enough to English they only had to learn certain phrases, and did so by listening in on the Commander or the Ambassador. Spanish seemed to be known as Antivan, and French, Orlesian. Though, they hadn’t thought it possible for French to become more flowery. Orlesians had apparently made it into an art form meant to leave one bleeding. Of all the languages they’ve heard bandied about the town, Greek hasn’t been uttered. Painful, yet comforting to know. They had a private language, and likely, none of their fellows would pop up here. 

“I had already come to the conclusion we’re stuck here,” Ava replies, raking a hand through her curls, wincing as she pulls knots. “It’s just. There’s so much  _ wrong _ . There are so many begging for the ‘blessing’ of a fallow womb, or something to mar them so they are no longer beautiful, desirable. It makes my heart hurt and my rage seeth.” 

“Slaves.” Nephele says grimly. “There are so many wishing death upon themselves, their Masters. I don’t understand how the system persists when there is such rebellion that simmers below the surface of still water.” 

It is a mystery, and Ava opens her mouth to say as much, when they are summarily interrupted. A plate is set onto the table, fruits and cold meats. It has Ava perking up, eyes flitting from the plate to land on their guest. 

“Well, this is a surprise, to see our most Holy twins among the rabble.” Varric has a flagon of his own, and settles into a chair with the ease of a man surrounded by people who make no concessions for his size. Truthfully, he isn’t as short as either woman would have assumed a dwarf to be. He is, however, built like a brickwall, which tracks with their home’s mythology. 

“We-” they each begin to deny their Holiness and pause, looking at one another. Would it be better to embrace their divinity here? They were already “Heralds”. 

“It’s complicated,” they chorus after a few silent moments, turning twin pairs of amber eyes on Varric. 

“No shit,” he levels a flat look at them, with sparks of amusement in his eyes. 

Ava likes him. He is full of snark and wit, with a goodness that shines when he isn’t actively attempting to misdirect people. Plus, she’s always loved strawberry blondes. He’s pretty, if she’s completely honest with herself, more honest than a rogue has a right to be, and his heart is fairly crying out to her. More so than anyone else’s here in the camp of Haven. He needs healing. 

“You two,” he says conversationally, leaning in his chair, taking a swig of beer and grimacing. “You two aren’t Thedosian. It doesn’t take a genuis and more than five minutes in the same room with either or both of you to come to that conclusion.” He gestures at them in turn with his mug, though his eyes linger on Ava a moment. “Ava attracts people like honey attracts flies. And Nephele over here is the single most skilled surgeon or healer, or whatever, I’ve ever seen. Saved a man’s leg yesterday when the mages had given up, and brought two people back from the dead if the gossip is to be believed. Yet, you aren’t a mage, either of you.  _ If _ the talk from the Templars is accurate.” 

Ava takes a long drink of her shitty wine, looking at Nephele over the rim of the mug. She had absolutely no idea how to counter Varric’s claims. Really she didn’t think they needed to. They aren’t mages. They aren’t Thedosians. On their world, it’s not exactly a  _ thing _ to our yourself as a scion, or later, a demi-god. It was asking to be locked into a mental ward, or mental hospital, or worse, end up on some Mad Scientist’s lab table as their personal guinea pig. 

Scions and Demi-Gods aren’t impervious to death by Mortal means as Gods are. As they had been. Which perpetuated the need for secrecy. But, there are no Titans, that they know of, here, and certainly a lack of Gods and their children. 

People  _ had _ known in their world. Their power, their reknown, and progression into Godhood was largely dependent on their followers, believers. Not the ones who paid them lip service. The ones who  _ really _ believed. Who prayed, who sacrificed, who walked a parishoner’s path in their names…

“I trained to be a Doctor in my homeland. A healer, in this land, but not with magic. I wanted to be the opposite of what I am.” Nephele shrugs. Basil peaks his iridescent white head from the collar of her shirt, and Varric jumps. It prompts the quieter twin to snort, her hands closing around her mug of tea as a feral smile crosses her face. 

“Being told by your adopted Mother you’re destined only to bring death will do one of two things to a teenager. One, you turn into an unrepentant serial killer, making death into an art. Two, you do anything in your power to not let that be true.” She takes a drink of the tea, fighting down a shocked grimace. They needed to ask people where they got their supplies, this is awful. After a beat, she looks up again. “I chose option two.”

“And the...snake?” 

“Basil? He’s my pet, my friend.” Her eyes drop down, affection radiating off her as she watches Basil taste the air before deeming it too cold to be away from the heat of her body. “I’ve had him since I was fifteen.” 

“Right.” The rogue draws out the word slowly, fixing his eyes on Ava. “And you?” 

“Nosy.” She declares after a beat. “I was a singer or bard, by trade, by purview, I heal, differently than my sister does. War has put us on odd paths.” Her eyes drop to the flagon and Nephele sighs. Of the pair of them, Ava had been robbed of her life more thoroughly than she. 

“I was damned good, too. But, you know how it is. Your mother tells you you’re destined for something greater, and it’s either provve your worth, or be killed when you least expect it.” 

Ava laughs sharply, blinking and looking away, eyes suspiciously glassy. “The real question,” she manages after taking a moment to compose herself. “Sir Tethras, is why you’re here with us, and if I can have that apple.” 

He laughs, a real and full sound that makes Ava brighten considerably. Her twin just shakes her head. That, that was going to be a problem. Ava fell so quickly into twitterpation with people. Fell in love just as fast and somehow always ended up heartbroken. There sat a young God of Love, and she couldn’t seem to find it for herself. Nephele very much doubts she’ll find it here either. 

“Well, how else am I meant to tell your story if I don’t know who you are? In a week, we’ve found not a single Antivan that knows the family name Anana. None of the Rivaini are eager to claim the pair of you either. Not that I would know, of course.” He waves a hand as if to distract them from the fact people are looking into them. 

“Of course,” they drawl together. It just happened, no matter what anyone thought or claimed. A decade of near constant companion would do that to anyone, let alone twins who had been partners for some centuries now. 

“We never claimed to be Rivaini or Antivan,” Ava replies, eyeing the apple pointedly as she leans forward. “You want to write our story. It seems dangerous, considering the Chantry hates us, and they have a distressingly large amount of power, apparently.” Nephele swears she can see the moment Ava exerts her will, swelling her presence in the room. 

She can only equate it to the woman conciously releasing a pheremone dump, the way everyone even mildly interested in the female form pauses to find the singer. Former singer. Varric, however, seems to resist it in those first, most punch drunk potent moments. He does throw Ava an apple, though. 

“Payment for the apple is a song.” Nephele blinks. What?

“A song?” Her sister catches the apple in the air and looks at it consideringly. “I don’t think my songs would be chantry approved, and definitely not appropriate for a mixed crowd.” 

“Better give the apple back then,” he leans forward as she leans back in her chair, taking a defiant bite of the apple. Nephele rolls her eys. Flirting. This has to be some kind of record. Flirtation over an  _ apple _ . Celestial beings help them all. 

“Not a chance. Why would I give you something that’s already in my hand, and didn’t have a price until it left yours?” She licks her lips, and Nephele does not miss how Varrics oddly bright amber heavy hazel eyes drop to her sister’s lips. 

“Scared?” He asks, with a tilt of his head, and Nephele stands up, leaving her mug of tea, unnoticed by either of them, heading out of the Tavern, and away from  _ that _ . 

Watching people flirt is the last thing she’s interested in watching. That, and seeing her sister set herself up for heart ache is never something she wants to see. Outside, away from the scent of fire and sweating bodies, she takes a deep breath - only to instantly regret it. Her nose wrinkles and she coughs. The scent of the privys has wafted from the corner of the make shift town. That would need to be dealt with, quickly. Open pits of waste were how the plague or other illness happened. 

She did not come here to -

“Ah, Herald. Blessed girls come to save us all. One of you, at least.” 

Her eyes snap open, landing on the elven man speaking. Solas. He is leaning against the wall just up the hill from her. He is a curious sort. Another ginger, if one counted Varric, in a sea of brunettes and blondes. A singular elf who meets the eyes of humans without flinching or demurring. 

In the week they had been awake here, she’d learned Elves were treated cruelly, Dwarves as a necessary evil of some nature, and Mages. The Mages were as openly abused as Elves, with Chantry approval. For Solas to be so bold, so sure of himself, is a serious anachronism. 

“I wonder,” she breathes, “Do we ride in on grand steeds? Unicorns, perhaps?” 

His eyes flash in the low light as a smile as feral as any she’s felt on her own lips, pulls at his. “Posturing is necessary in times such as these.” 

“Undoubtedly,” she agrees,” we must wave our very big sticks around, to make those with smaller sticks cow to our demands.” She pushes off the side of the Tavern, closing the distance between them. 

“I wonder,” he muses, watching her closely as she climbs the hill. “What will history say of you when this is all over? Will you be the benevelent savior? Or a cruel tyrant?” 

There is something there, she decides, under the surface. He is  _ so _ sure of himself. So sure she will not reprimand him in any manner. She knows that kind of surety of self. What she is about to do is a gamble, but with luck, she won’t end up losing more than she can stand to.

“How is any God spoken of? Sweetly by those who see only the sweetness of us all. Cautiously by those who know our capricious natures and know better than to just look at our pretty packaging and moments of magnanimity.” 

She climbs the hill with ease, snow is no great hurdle to her, not like it is to Ava. Pausing when she crests the, finding him in front of her, previously watery blue eyes suddenly fathomless. He studies her, in the starlight and dark.

“How indeed. You are something of an enigma, da’len.” 

“I could say the same of you, Sir Solas. I’ve not met anyone so supremely terrible at hiding in plain sight.” 

Nephele gives the man credit for not reeling back from hlike a bad Bond villain at her pronouncement. Instead, his ears seem to flatten to his skull a bit, eyes going stormy, lips twisting into a momentary frown. He is weighing his options, trying to figure out how to step in this little dance they’d started. She knows, because she has been where he stands now. Nephele chooses for him. She leans over, pulling from her boot the little dagger shes taken to carrying around. Lifting it, and lifting her free hand into a beam of moonlight, she presses it over her palm. Blood wells, as it should, as she replaces the dagger, stepping closer, so her thighs are against the wall, and that is all that seperates the pair of them. Even then, it is barely a seperation now. 

“Blood is so strange,” she murmurs, and his eyes drop to her hand before flicking to hers. There is wary caution on his face now, and it’s in that moment, because she is still a dramatic teenager in her heart of hearts, that she ignites her will. Here, it is much harder to do than even at home when she first learned how to to do so. In her proper world, her will snapped and crackled, her powers and ichor obeyed without more than a gentle prod.

Here she must concentrate, and so her biggest giveaway - a truth of any of her ilk - is more apparent. Her eyes are black, no white or color to be seen, but her blood shimmers in the night. 

Solas should back away, should call for Templars, name her a blood mage. She’s dreamt it. Another call for blessed death that she could not escape from or provide for the desperate. However, he is only looking at her with a keen, calculating gaze before his hand lifts, and hovers over hers. With a chilly flash, her palm is healed. Her eyes fade back to brown, but before she drops her hands, his fingers light over her skin, making goose flesh rise on her arm. 

“As I said, Da’len, you are an enigma. But then, are any of us plain?” His words are carefully chosen, and he smiles after a moment, a fleeting, crooked thing. 

“I look forward to seeing just what that will of yours is like, in action.” 

“Then I guess you best keep watching.” 

With a start, Nephele realizes she can smell mint on his breath, and he likely the dandelion leaves on hers. When had they gotten so very close, breathing each other’s air?

“I will be.” He takes several steps back, ducking into a courtly bow that is surely mocking her. “You should retire to bed, Nephele. It will soon be very cold, and your twin will call for you soon.” 

Her brows furrow, hand dropping to rest on the top of the wall. How could he know that? Was he one of the prescient gods? He has to be some nature of God. His words indicated as such, and his reaction to her is far from the norm, or what impression of normal her dreams give her. 

“Neph!” Ava’s call as she bursts from the Tavern, door bouncing off the outer wall, has her turning, and she sighs. The light from the Tavern spills into the night, much like her sister spills onto the path below. 

“Come on! I sang a bit enthusiastically, I think. We should make a hasty retreat to the cottage.” 

“Yes,” Nephele says flatly, as she hop=trots down the hill. “Because being outside the gate, where the Commander can’t keep an eye on us, or his men, is so much safer.” She shakes her head at her sibling’s antics. Together, they duck and dodge around snowbanks and haybales all the way back to their cottage. All to avoid people while Ava reined in her passive talents. 

“So. The dwarf?” 

“Oh, like you can talk.” 


	2. II. Assessment Part One

Sleep is fitful at best. The dreams they have are rife with pleas, and it’s hard for them to tell what is real, and what has been created. There is a lifelike quality to the dreams that further distresses the former gods. They could smell the rooms their petitioners were in; they could practically scent the fear they felt. For them, this isn’t natural, and it makes sleep a chore.

At dawn, Nephele opens her eyes a final time from sleep. Staring at the exposed beams of the cabin, she waits for her sister’s breathing to pick up. The whole time, she reviews the dreams, the petitions, that she’d seen. When Ava’s breathing does pick up, indicating her waking state, Nephele rolls over in her bed.

“We need to fully assess our capabilities here.” Looking across the room at her siblings is comforting. Her mirror, her most treasured confidant. It hadn’t always been so, for years she’d drifted mildly comforted by her older brother when feelings of loneliness would threaten to consume her. But those years are far behind her now.

“Mmph,” Ava rolls toward her twin, eyes still bleary. She understands what Nephele is getting at. Her dreams had been mostly prayer, rather than actual dreams.

“Does this mean we’re training?” Her face rubs against the down filled pillow under her cheek. They hadn’t trained in eons. Not without an army behind them, at any rate. They had felt they were at a point they didn’t have to drill themselves to work fluidly together. They’d progressed so far by then… it makes the regression rankle all the more.

“I’m a bit shocked,” she reveals after a moment, “that we didn’t have Templar’s banging down our door this morning.” Her dreams, because of her nature, were lustful, vengeful, violent in all manner of ways.

“As am I.” Nephele replies. Some dreams had been horrific memories, moments seared into her mind as women and men alike were used, abused, both at the same time. It makes her itch for her power, to give the petitioners their justice, or their peace. “It’s why we need to get a handle on our powers. Not to mention, I don’t think I saw a single Mycenean blade on the field when we were attempting to close the Breach. I’m actually quite annoyed overall that our weaponry was lost in the travel here, if we can really call it travel. I imagine, if I draw it out, I could convince the smithy here to make two for us.”

“And shields,” Ava groans into her pillow.

“And shields,” Nephele echoes. “Until then, we will need to become used to their standard weaponry. We also need to test our latent gifts. We’re lucky our artifacts are still with us.” Her hand lifts to the necklace that sits perfectly around her neck, amulet setting in the hollow of her throat. She watches as Ava’s head moves, eyes shifting to their dressers where her belt lay, a hand coming up to touch her maenad earrings.

“We are. If nothing else, the artifacts will work. But, this place is like living in mud.” Her words are thoughtful, betraying her distaste and confusion over this place, their situation. “I hear the pleas, see the petitioners in my dreams, but I can’t do anything about them. It’s maddening, heartbreaking.” She shoves herself up in the bed on one arm. “They aren’t even praying to me. At least, not all of them. I think some of the Elves might be, or to someone who was close enough to my purview and has been usurped.”

“I imagine that must be what’s going on. Someone calls for Falon’din, and I am getting the messages.” Nephele shrugs, sitting up, moving her pillow so she can lean back against the wall. “We cannot deal with the Breach until we know how far to take things. Also, I implied to the mage who healed us, Solas, that we are more than we seem.” Her hand comes up to stall Ava from interrupting. “It’s a calculated risk. He’s not the same as the others of his people and that is highly irregular to me. He’s not the same as any of the mages in Haven that I’ve seen. Doesn’t feel the same when he casts. And when you compare him to other men of his species - “

“He’s got smaller eyes, shorter ears, broader shoulders, though barely, and he is quite a bit taller.” Ava looks over at her sister. “You think he’s a godchild?”

“Or whatever passes for one here, yes.”

“Well, that’s interesting.” Ava smirks a bit, “you like him.”

“We aren’t all driven by attraction and love, Ava.” Her tone is patient, though her words indicate annoyance.

“The fuck we aren’t.” Ava snorts, pulling back her covers. “Affection drives nearly every human interpersonal action. Storge, Philia, Agape, there are seven types of love, Neph. It’s not all heavy breathing and sweat.”

Getting up, she all but runs for the clothes bureau, curtailing her stomping. She’s always been particularly incensed whenever someone attempts to tell her all she sees or cares about is sexual love. It’s beyond insulting. Love is a beautiful, driving force. For good, for ill, in desperation, in devotion. It is a nuanced idea and emotion.

“Fine. Fine.” Nephele is beside her in a few breaths. “It’s dawn, so let's see if we can’t cause a riot with your singing when everyone is sober. I’ll attempt to grow something, steal a corpse, you know, just girl things.”

** * * * * * * * * * * **

Ava slaps at her sister’s arm as she positions them in the middle of the recruit camp. “Are you trying to get us killed?! This is the middle of the fucking training yard.”

“They could try, but they’re dooming themselves to death if they kill us. Now, sing little bird, _sing_.” Nephele smirks. This is the most devil may care thing she’s done in quite some time. As she ducks to the side, Ava grits her teeth.

“I am going to set your ass on fire one day.”

“You didn’t walk out of the Volcano.”

“Mother did, and you know --”

“Yes. I know. **Sing**.”

“Fuck.” Ava rubs her hands over her face before she straightens herself out, throwing her shoulders back. Mentally she just grabs at a song from the thousands she knows. She doesn’t immediately find one in another language, and that’s a tragedy, but this one fits, after a fashion. The song swells beneath her breast and flows up out of her mouth. “When all is lost and found -”

Waking with the sun wasn’t natural for Varric, or it hadn’t until he’d met Hawke. Then the bastard had him up all hours at the drop of a hat. He loved the kid, but he’d caused Varric no end of ulcers over the years. On his way to break ice for a quick wash, he’s distracted halfway to the dock.

Generally, Varric is slow to waken fully, sure he’s moving, but he’s not fully aware. He missed the fact he’s dodged past half the Inquisition forces just to get to where he is. It’s not until someone whistles that he pauses. Looking around, he spots Ava.

He’s heard the compliments from the men and women of the camp to their Heralds. Though most couldn’t tell Ava from Nephele if they wanted to. Which he finds boggling. Ava is beautiful. Not that Nephele isn’t, they both are, in an entirely unearthly manner. Bianca was a beauty of mind and cruel heart. Merrill was an innocent beauty, clinging to her naivety and making everyone want to protect her.

Ava glows with life. It’s a glow he wants for himself. To bask in it, wrap himself in the warmth of it, feel like, for once, he is the one someone wants completely. Second to none. It’s a selfish notion when it comes to her. He’s got to be at least ten years her senior.

“I won’t run - no I won’t. But I need some solid ground, so I won’t run, so it won’t pull me under. Just pull me closer, so it won’t pull me under. Just pull me closer.”

She’s got a stronger build than her sister, through the legs at least, and her face is clear of freckles, but not her shoulders, which can be glimpsed every time she’s not in her armor. Her hair is darker than Nephele’s - just a hint. Nephele is gold, Ava is red where their hair is concerned. Ava’s lips are fuller, her nose just a little more buttoned where Nephele’s has a slight upturn.

“Just pull me closer.”

He notes, absently, there is a strange frantic undertone to her song. It makes him drift toward her, pushing to the front of the crowd that’s forming. He certainly isn’t the only one drawn by her and her song. It’s a little like she’s hooked her fingers beneath his ribs and is pulling him toward her. Except, he wants to go; it isn’t an unwilling draw. It just is.

“I won’t run - no I won’t. But I need some solid ground, I won’t run, so it won’t pull me under.”

He’s close enough to see the way her lips are a little chapped. To see her eyes are frantic, running from face to face of the people who’ve come to hear her sing. “So it won’t pull me under.”

Varric wonders if she realizes she’s moving to the tune only she can hear. She’s acting out the song. Reaching for a phantom person to be her tether. It’s a bittersweet dance for a bittersweet song.”

“When all is lost and found -” The song is simple, it keeps repeating, and somehow, he’s at the front of the crowd. Her eyes lock onto his, hazel meeting chocolate, a bolt runs through him. A bit like someone had gotten him with a weak lightning spell. Her hand reaches out to him, and Maker’s balls if he were younger, or less broken, he’d take her hand. As it is, she’s startled by the clanging of armor that rises above the din of her song and the crowd around her. It apparently startled her so badly she jumps, song dying on her lips.

He has a moment to wonder what or better, who, caused the crash of metal on metal before turning back to Ava. Only, when he turns back to where she’d been singing, she’s gone. Blinking, wondering if he’d imagined it, Varric searches for her, moving out of the crowd and - ah, it was real.

The retreating form of Ava with her sister dragged behind her isn’t so bad. She does have great legs, and great hips. It’s a pity she didn’t get to finish her song, but he won’t pass up the chance to see the sunlight hit her hair, the sway of her hips, or flex of her muscles beneath her leggings. Abruptly he shakes himself.

“Maker’s ass,” he murmurs, noting he’s still got his wash bucket in hand. “What am I _doing_?” Heading for the water’s edge, he berates himself. He’s already tied up in someone; devoted to a woman he can’t have, so what the hell is he doing entertaining trying it again?

They run from the crowd, tearing off to the smithy and beyond it. Thankfully their boots had been returned to them, though their armor hadn’t been. They don’t make much noise as they run beyond their breathing. It isn’t until they are past the bend in the path beyond the smithy they slow down.

“Well, that was informative,” Nephele breathes, stretching out a mild stitch in her side. She grimaces as she pulls the protesting muscles lightly, looking at the rocks that make up a natural wall on one side of the path between the smith and bridge. There are a horde of those odd little naked rabbit-raccoon animals everywhere too, odd patches of grass in the snow.

“I sure fucking hope so,” Ava grumbles.

“It was. You couldn’t use your siren’s song until we were more god than mortal, remember? We were what, Ninety at the time?”

Ava shrugs, she’d frankly stopped county after sixty without looking older than thirty and called it could. Her hands rake through her curls carefully before starting to separate her mane down the middle. She braids it nimbly in the French style into two tails. It makes her look infinitely younger than she actually is and the age her body portrays to mortals. Nephele does the same, knowing she’ll need her hair out of her face once they get into sparring.

When her hair is set, she walks, looking for a good candidate to bring back to life. A floral subject this time, and eventually, they’d need to steal past the gate in search of a body for her to attempt to raise or even simply speak to for a moment. She pauses beside one of the smallish trunked trees, with a great series of gnarled exposed roots and not a leaf in sight.

Touching the gem that sits in the hollow of her throat, her eyes flash green for a breath, before she steps forward and rests her hand on the dead looking tree. Resting her hand gently on the bark, she listens intently to the last sparks of life in it. This had been a hardy tree once, the winter chill doing nothing to bend its branches or prevent its blooms. An odd revelation to be sure, but Nephele accepts this at face value, even though they are nestled halfway up a mountain. Closing her eyes, she presses her will into the tree. First, she strengthens its roots, and they shoot deep into the soil, rocky, frozen, but still holding life. Then, she presses the leaves into budding, unfurling, stretching up to greet the sun so it may properly feed and return to life.

“Nephele.”

Her eyes snap open, and she turns her head to Ava who is looking at the tree with wide eyes. Stepping back, she tilts her head. The sight that greets her makes her mouth pop open. The leaves are red, the trunk is black with odd silvery veins that can be seen in the crags of the bark. “I didn’t do that.”

“You find, from our exhibit a in front of us, that you did” Ava’s hand settles on her shoulder. It’s comforting, solid, familiar.

“It should have been a normal tree. It felt like a normal tree,” Nephele hisses.

“Normal to you and I, isn’t necessarily the Thedas normal,” Ava replies at length, spending a few moments inspecting the tree. Her instincts say the tree is fine, better than fine. Though, her purview has never been flora. She can fallow or bless a field, but that doesn’t mean she would. Her purview, her preference, has always been people. She’s a fertility goddess and healer, but not a nature fertility goddess. She eyes Nephele who watches the tree with a considering look in her eyes.

“Maybe.”

Nephele turns, backs up a step, and leans back against the tree, sliding her butt down until it hits hardpacked, frozen as hell, dirt. Ava sits beside her, legs crossed. They’re quiet for a while, before Ava speaks. She keeps her voice low, switching into Greek, not that there are people around to hear them, but it was best safe than sorry.

“What do you think about all of this?”

“The new world, a holy order for a different god, or the massive amounts of racism?”

“All of the above, but let’s start with the new world. We’ve been pretty mum about it, but let’s face it, we’ve been running from the moment we woke up. There hasn’t been time to digest and unpack it all. I mean, we’ve seen the Overworld and it’s pretty much another world, but. But we could always get back to the mortal realm.” Her elbows rest on her knees and she leans forward. “But now, I don’t know, Neph, this place feels like it’s, like it’s swallowing us.” Her lips twitch in frustration.

“No, that’s not quite right.” The world feels like it’s accepting them, molding places for them to fit into seamlessly. She gave them six weeks before their cycles sync to the dual moon cycles. If that. She might sync within the month; she’s always been a bit faster about that compared to Nephele, for obvious reasons. “I can’t really explain it without it sounding mad.”

“It’s fine. I get it.” Nephele waves off her sister’s inability. “That’s certainly something to think about, but if we’re stuck here. This is a disaster. For starters, we’ve landed in what correlates to our ancient days. I heard someone mention leeches in the healer’s tents. I don’t know how I’m meant to deal with that.” She lifts a hand and starts to tick things off. “Food sanitation, medical sanitation, accurate anatomical knowledge, I don’t think those words or concepts exist yet. Our bathrooms are a line of outhouses that apparently get moved. But who knows when that actually happens?”

“Yeah.” Ava knocks her head back against the tree, grimacing and shuddering. “It’s not Target and Walmart out here.”

“No electricity!” Nephele exclaims, hand raising to the sky before planting on her face, her knees coming up so her elbows can be braced on them.

“We’ve got no internet, no easy access to information. We’re in the damned dark ages, or on the cusp of enlightenment. I don’t know which! All I do know is we’ve got to do something about the sanitation situation. Everyone needs to be bathing, washing their hands and clothes regularly. If not, we’re going to have a fucking plague outbreak before we get close to closing the Breach.”

“Mmhm.” Ava closes her eyes, another shudder running through her, her stomach lurching at the thought. “And how are we supposed to fix it? Are we in any kind of position to do so? Will the advisors listen if we make suggestions or demands? I mean, a week or so ago we were in _chains_ , dude.”

“Don’t get me started on the damned dungeons. I went down there, yesterday when you were pulled aside by Josephine. It **reeks** of piss and fear, and I’m not entirely unconvinced of death.”

“Okay.” Ava breathes deeply. “Racism.”

“Fucking _ **racist assholes**_.” Nephele growls, heels of her hands digging into her eyes. “Or maybe we should call them species-ist. Again, I don’t know. There may be a common ancestry between Elves, Humans, Dwarves and Qunari, but frankly, I’m not hopeful. The origin stories are disparate in the extreme for elves and dwarves, and humans just kind of appeared from the North and swarmed into the south. So maybe Human and Qunari have a common ancestor. Point is, everyone is a racist dick, and no one is safe from abuse. The women get the worst of it, but goddamn, Ava. It’s breaking my heart. Elves are just, just used, like the African diaspora were. Need workers? Find an Elf. Need a whore? Rape an Elf! Need a sacrifice for more magical power? Kill an Elf.”

Nephele surges to her feet, pacing as she speaks. “Gods alive those poor fucking people. They don’t ever have a chance at real freedom. They’re kept in glorified slums or made to be nomadic tribes and that’s just what I’ve gleaned listening in the pubs and around town as we walk. This? This town? This is practically a paradise with it’s integration.”

“Integration, Neph, Varric sleeps in a _tent_ by the fire.” Ava interjects, lifting her head to watch the other woman. “I frankly don’t know or think there are any Elves within the walls of Haven. I think they’re stuck with the recruits. Recruits who we aren’t vetting. And these fucking walls.”

Standing, Ava kicks a pebble so it ricochet’s off one of the nearby tree trunks masquerading as a wall. “Who are we keeping out with that? The nugs and ram?! If we get attacked here, everyone dies, but the first hit are the Elves and Dwarves who aren’t in the goddamn walls.”

“Holy order,” Nephele intones, sounding tired.

“Holy _fucking_ order, for a _different God_. “ Ava barks out laughter that is borderline high pitched hysteria. It’s shrill, forced, and Nephele crouches, reaching out for her twin, grabbing at her hands.

“We’re going to diminish into mortals again.” Nephele rocks back at the force of the fear in Ava’s words. It’s unmistakable and unshakable.

“We can’t answer the petitioner's prayers. I haven’t a clue if I can ward someone, if I can heal injuries more serious than a scratch or reverse a barren womb or cause one to be barren. I have no idea if I can bless a field or anything!”

“It takes double the time it should, to ignite the ichor,” Nephele offers, eyes wet. She’s scared too. Terrified, really, but they needed to work this out away from prying eyes. She hadn’t been aware just how heavily she relied on her divinity until it was ripped from her. Centuries of being more God than Mortal and now she must rely solely on her wits, her reflexes, strengths, and training? She is smart, she is strong, just like Ava, but for pity’s sake neither of them has been completely mortal since sixteen. She’s old now. This isn’t a game. It never was, but now.

“Want to go see if we can tear a tree in two? Or spar on the ice and see how our reflexes hold up?” Ava’s suggestion is mild. She’d much rather go find someone attractive and willing, and ideally skilled enough to fuck her until she can’t think anymore. However, small town, Herald of Andraste. Who somehow was chaste despite having about a dozen sons and daughters, who was somehow a model of purity when she actively left her husband for a God. No wonder he was convinced to let her burn.

“Or,” Nephele laughs wetly. “We could go to the chantry and read, cry when it gets too much.”

“Let’s fight first, then cry.” Ava sighs, as Nephele flops herself onto the ground again. She leans her head back, looking up at the red trees on their black branches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right so, I should probably point out that Nephele and Ava look similar, but are not identical twins. In fact, their whole twin thing? It won't be addressed yet, but when it is, it's gonna get crazy because Greeks and then more crazy because I'm mashing two differing God groupings from disparate cultures into one. 
> 
> Just. Bear with me.
> 
> Here is the link to the song Ava is singing: https://tidal.com/browse/track/46733814  
>  and clearly Ava is doing a cover because can you imagine dubstep in thedas???


	3. III. Assessment part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations and Silent observations.

They’d headed to the lake almost immediately after they’d decided to. For all they’d both agreed they needed to get used to the weapons of this world, they have forgone them. Best to test their strength and reflexes properly before they got into swinging swords, lances, and whatever else was available. 

Ava bounces on her toes, while Nephele stretches her arms in turn. Without a word, they fall into their respective ready stances. Their styles had always been different, thanks to growing up on completely different sides of the country from one another and being raised by different men. Lucian favored the East Asian fighting styles, Jerome, the twin’s father, was a boxer, and later moved Ava into mixed martial arts. They taught each other, and from there others added into their knowledge. 

When they spring at one another, it’s a well-choreographed dance. Fists and legs lash out, slowly at first, carefully. Neither one of them knew their own strength anymore. If they were where Ava thought, they were reduced to the strength they’d woken to upon their awakenings. She had outstripped her sister in that respect. Not by much, but enough to give her an edge. They keep toying with each other but begin to push themselves to move faster. 

“Commander!” A recruit, young, so very young, runs to Cullen, eyes wide with wonder. 

“What is it?” 

“Ser, the Heralds - they’re on the ice, sparring, you must come see!” The young woman points as she turns, and Cullen lifts his head in the direction given. Sure enough, there are the Heralds, their marks flaring now and again as they dart across the ice trading blows. He doesn’t know half of the moves that either of the women use. Not that it matters, what matters is they can fight well. He’d seen it firsthand from Nephele that day at the Breach.

_She strode onto the field in borrowed armor with two short swords in hand and cut a bloody swath beside Cassandra to get to him. She was pale, what is likely golden-brown skin greyed out and sickly. But her pain, her exhaustion, of which Cullen knew the signs well, didn’t stop her. She strides through the ashes of the dead, looking for all the world like she belongs here. He has the eerie notion that this is where that woman is most comfortable, amongst the dead and dying._

_Her blades sing through the air as she attacks the demons they’d barely been keeping at bay. They just kept pouring from the damned rift. He’s lost men to injury in droves, and it’s just him, with a squad of five left. The Terror demons are relentless, but he cannot be anything less than just as stubborn._

_“Down!” The command is one he follows without thought. Head turning slightly, he sees her shift her grip on her weapon, and then -. Her sword is launched into the chest of the spindly Terror demon, and she’s pivoting around him to grab at it. She deftly plants a foot on the demon, raising her other sword as she removes the first, and beheading the thing. He’s not seen a warrior move so quickly while half dead. Cassandra and Solas accompany her, but the other prisoner is oddly absent._

_“Close it!” Cassandra barks at the woman and her head turns, eyes flashing dangerously before she is thrusting her hand into the crystalline green of the rift. Sweat breaks out in little beads on her forehead as she closes her fist and pulls shut the tear._

_From there, the fight is quick. Cut off from the fade and without a body’s spirit to feed on, the demons are far more easily dispatched. Still, the prisoner is something to behold. She moves with fluidity attributed to lifelong fighters, but her slight build and youthful face belay the idea she’s been fighting for decades._

_“Sealed, as before. You are becoming quite proficient at this.” The elven man, Solas, congratulates the woman, who only nods solemnly._

_“Lady Cassandra,” he calls, approaching the group of three. “You managed to close the rift. Well done.”_

_“Do not congratulate me, Commander. All the rifts closed have been the doing of our prisoners.”_

_“Is it.” He looks over the woman who is sheathing her swords, looking lost, but somehow wrathful. There’s something about her that keeps him from actually moving toward her to address her. “I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost quite a few people getting you here. It’s a shame the other prisoner did not survive.”_

_“She’s alive.” Her quiet tone shocks him. There’s a cold heat to her as she looks up at him finally. “I hope they’re right, too.”_

_“Well,” he replies, blinking. “We’ll see soon enough, won’t we?”_

_She turns from him, looking toward the Temple, waiting as if to see something. Vaguely disturbed by her lack of distress, by her lack of deference, Cullen turns to Cassandra. “The way to the temple should be completely clear now. Leliana’s scouts will try to meet you there.”_

_“Good,” Cassandra replies, striding forward until she’s shoulder to shoulder with the prisoner. “Leliana went with the other prisoner, we’d best move quickly and pray they made it. Give us time, Commander.”_

_He nods sharply, breathing a sigh of relief when a soldier limps from behind some rubble. “Maker watches over you - for all our sakes.” He only barely catches the prisoner’s wince, like he’d slap her. It’s an odd reaction._

“Maker’s mercy,” the shocked yell of his recruit jars him from the memory, and he looks up in time to see Ava being sent flying. Nephele is smirking, not worried as her sister slams into one of the rock formations near the edge of the lake. The way Ava hits - it should, _would_ have killed a lesser person. It should have killed Ava. 

Instead, the woman is staggering away from the rocks, shaking snow from her hair. She _laughs_ , before spitting, _blood_ from her mouth, shooting rude gestures toward her sister. “That was a bitch move!” 

“Such a bitch move that I won that round,” Nephele taunts, cocking a hip to the side and settling a hand on the curve. 

He’s baffled. He’s seen recruits come to blows before, seen aged warriors take a spar too far, but this? This is...something else. One moment Ava is there, and the next she’s a streak of green across the lake. Some of the recruits have stopped, well, most of the recruits are no longer paying attention to drills - again. There had been an incident at dawn.

Everyone is watching as the women collide again. It’s like Ava’s loss has thrown down some nature of challenge. The gloves seem to have come off. The blows that land do so with crunches and thuds that make him cringe. Those that miss, don’t miss by much. 

“Maker’s breath, they’re incredible.” “No normal woman is that fast.” “You’ve never seen my wife when I’ve eaten out the pot before dinner then, mate.” “It’s not natural.” “The Maker’s touch on them, surely.” 

The comments make him groan. In the week they’d been asleep and the first whispers of Heralds of Andraste, Maidens of the Maker have been bandied about, he’d tried to stop it. Leliana and Josephine, however, encouraged it. This display would only fuel the fire. When Nephele tumbles ass over tea kettle through the assembled men, he hastens to her. Ending up leaning over to help her, his lips pull into a frown. 

“My Lady, is this really the best use of your time?” 

Her eyes lift and lock onto his. It’s a bit like she’s staring into his soul, and Cullen decides from here out, he will avoid looking Nephele Anana in the eye. For now, he stubbornly holds her gaze as she takes his hand and he pulls her up. Her lip is split, there’s a bruise peeking out from under the collar of her shirt. Said shirt is torn in two places. Maker’s breath, they are destructive. 

“Apologies, Commander. My sister and I needed to assess ourselves, the Breach seems to have...dulled us, somewhat. It won’t do for us to be inadequate in the field.” Her tone is brisk, words stilted. He notices her freckles in the light and wonders, idly if both have freckles. Her hand retreats from his and he flushes scarlet. Of all the things to forget, he never let go of her hand. 

“It is your time to do with as you will, My Lady. I just wondered if weapons were not more suited to training.” 

“Perhaps later,” she offers. And skirts past him as Ava jogs up. 

“Round three?” 

“Later. Let’s go to the Maiden and get some food.” 

“Oh, blessed Mothers, I am _starving_.” The pair link arms, and head for the gates of Haven, their braids a mess of curls, but oddly pretty in the sun. They are oddly pretty. His nose scrunches and he snaps around to the recruits. 

“Back to your drills! You’ll be lucky to have a full lunch at this rate.” 

Ava brushes some dirt off of Nephele as they walk. She’d been a bit quiet in the yards between Commander Rutherford and the gates. It’s not until they’ve ducked in and started up the stairs that Ava speaks. 

“Have you noticed the commander has a bit of a ...song?” 

“What?” Nephele’s eyes shift to her sister as they dodge around some runners. Seggrit is in another argument over the prices of his goods. They need to find competition that won’t bleed them dry. 

“He has a song.” Ava shrugs her shoulders. “It’s tinny, and muffled, sour notes that are dying. I can’t figure out what it is. I noticed it when we woke up and met him that first day.” 

“You were close to him,” she agrees, nose wrinkling as she thinks back just a few moments ago. “I can’t say I heard any sour note songs from him. You’re the healer by purview.” 

“But death is yours.” Ava says it lowly, smiling brightly at one of the chantry sisters wandering around the outskirts of the town. “If it were killing him, I’d wager you’d know.” 

“I 1would,” she allows. “But I don’t get that feeling from him. In fact, most people here are actually fairly healthy. It’s when we get to nearer the healer’s tents that death lingers.” 

“Hm.” 

** * * * * * * * * * * * * **

Haven is a much bigger town than one might give it credit for. Leliana remembers it as it was, some ten years ago now. When the Cultists had lived in this town, it had been smaller and yet so much larger at the same time that it’s baffling or would be had the Divine not specifically had Leliana check on the restoration. Justinia had wanted a place to offer the Mages, somewhere safe to settle.

It had been the Divine’s plan to abolish the Circles, deeming the system to have been corrupted. Nothing could last, she had said, over seven ages, and not deviate from the original goals set out by their ancestor. Leliana had admired such a view, though she knew it made her colleagues nervous. Free Mages it seemed, made everyone nervous.

But, weren’t Templars and Seekers just as dangerous? Hawke’s adventures had certainly given credence to such thoughts. More than credence, he’d seen proof that Templars could be possessed. Her head shakes to dislodge errant thoughts. It doesn’t matter what she thinks of this, not truly. Or at least, not of what Justinia had been aiming for. It would be months or perhaps even years before they could tread back upon the road to Mage freedoms.

She looks out from her tent in front of the Chantry. No longer were there blood stains in the snow here, nor bodies hidden in drifts. So many poor souls had died here. It had been such a great hope to heal the scars wrought by those who had been at odds with Andraste and the Maker. Her arms fold over under her bust.

Thirty proper houses laid within the makeshift walls of haven for pilgrimage. Thirty more for nobility from Orlais, the Free Marches, Orlais, Antiva, and even Rivain. Not that anyone had shown up from the latter two nations. The Healers alley is nestled closest to the privies along the western mountain slope, just beyond the copse of trees that separated Adan, and Solas from it. The Tavern had been placed at the center of the town, a level down from the Chantry and the Nobility’s quarters. The Quarter Master located to the Eastern side of the Chantry itself.

The Divine had been meant to stay in the Chantry parsonage, but now, with her death, her effects had been packed up, hidden in the bowels of the Chantry proper and the parsonage had turned into the quarters for the remaining Mothers, Sisters, and Brothers who had stayed in Haven after the denouncement.

The lowest level of Haven where the walls are still being properly built, is where the merchants gather. She had hoped more would gather here, but they have only Seggrit for the moment. A problem that would eventually need to be dealt with. They needed tailors, to supply the Quarter Master at cost, more timber houses to house them, produce vendors, and perhaps a farmer if they made it that long. As it stood, they had no hope of surviving when Winter hit if they had no backing from any quarter.

Sighing, she looks to the smoke of the smithy, that keeps the stables warm. They have only five cart horses, and some twenty proper war steeds, not counting those owned by the Seeker, Commander, herself, and Josephine. That was another crippling roadblock. She eyes the sky for Ravens. She’d sent several detachments of her scouts to seek out possible support and resources.

So far there is only news of renewed fighting on the roads and unrest within small towns that are being pillaged by both sides. Her eyes drop, and she blinks. Red leaves? There were no trees here of that sort, it is far too cold. Only the fir trees are hardy enough for this climate.

A crash draws her eyes, that widen as she watches one of the Heralds push herself away from the rocks, spitting and attacking her sister. It is a marvel and horror to watch. They move like no warriors or rogues she’s ever met. Not with all the classifications trained, not with all her travel during the Blight or in the years after it at the Divine’s side. They move like wraiths.

“Ah, Leliana, there you are.” Josephine appears at her side, and Leliana’s blue eyes cut to the brunette.

“Josie, what do you need of me?”

“There are some troubling reports coming from the tents where the servants’ quarter.” Josephine’s mouth tilts into a tight, unhappy frown. “Someone has been raped, another beaten quite badly, and other rumors are finding their way to me. I need your people to ferret out who is mistreating our people, and quietly deal with them, yes?”

“Of course, my friend.”

The Heralds are making their way into town as she turns back around, one quite dusty. She snorts seeing them give Seggrit dark looks. Perhaps these women would be the perfect faces they needed to drive the Inquisition toward their goals, and past them.

Ava hip checks open the door of the Singing Maiden, while Nephele rolls her eyes. There’s a lull in conversation and she grins winningly at the crowd. “Hello Inquisition! How’s lunch?”

While neither had been expecting any response, the do receive some murmured complaints and praise in equal measure for the food. Ava heads straight for the counter to get after Flissa for some food, while Nephele finds a table in the corner. She sits, just as Varric makes his entrance.

“Well if it isn’t the Diva of the Inquisition!”

Ava spins from where she’d been talking to Flissa. “If it isn’t the Author. Come to try and wheedle more of my story from me without proper payment?” With a tongue touched grin, she turns back to the barmaid and finishes her order.

“Come eat with us,” she insists, reaching out and tracing his jawline. She’s bold, and knows it, but also knows, that Varric won’t react the way she wants him to. He smiles, that rogue, devil-may-care grin of his, and nods. “Sure thing, Lark.”

She raises a brow. Lark? Diva? Does he do that for everyone, or just the people he likes, she wonders. Sliding onto a bench opposite Nephele, she resolutely does not respond to the look she’s getting from her sister. It last so long, that finally she sighs.

“Shut up, Neph.”

“Didn’t say a word,” the other woman teases, “Diva, huh?”

“ _Shut it_.” Ava hisses as she takes her hair out of the braids, curls wild around her face and falling over her shoulders. She’s got a witty remark ready but notes a certain bald elf has made an appearance. Smirking she stands. “Solas! Come sit with us.”

Sitting, she stifles some girlish giggles at the red dusting her twin’s cheeks. “Here he comes,” she warns, before the scent of Elfroot, Catmint, and leather washes over her. For all Solas dresses as if he is a vagrant, the man keeps himself _clean_. Which is not something most even in this Tavern can claim for themselves.

“Lady Ava, Lady Nephele.” He nods at them in turn, though his eyes settle on Nephele and don’t move again. It makes Ava giddy. Nephele so rarely got people’s attention like this and damn it, she deserves all the attention. Nephele is brilliant, an _actual Doctor_ , and quite gorgeous in Ava’s estimation. Though, she is biased. They share many of the same features.

“Ser Solas. Good to see you this lovely day.” She has to speak, or they’ll just keep staring at each other from beneath their lashes. It’s adorable, but that’s not going to get the ball rolling. A ghost of a smile forms on his lips.

“I heard some interesting rumors about a little bird singing this morning, and then a tree’s leaves returning. You two wouldn’t know anything about that?” His eyes leave Nephele for a moment, as Varric sits down beside Ava, three mugs in his hands. From the smell, there’s cider and beer. He passes the ciders to the women, an apologetic look on his face.

“Want me to grab you something, Chuckles?”

“Ah, no. A moment and I’ll go place my order.” Solas waves him off.

“That might have been us.” Nephele offers in her soft manner. Her shoulders hitch, and she takes the warmed mug with a grateful smile.

“Curious. I’ve never met a human mage who wielded nature magic like that,” Solas remarks. “Nor one who infused magic into her voice.”

“I’m not –“ “We aren’t-“ they start and finish together, “Mages.” 

Solas narrows his eyes at them. “Impossible, you must both have magic to have done what you did this morning. There’s not other explanation.”

Nephele turns to face him, a mulish look on her face. “Did what I showed you last night mean nothing?”

The opposite side of the table perks up. What had she shown Solas? Though, Ava’s query and theory are _vastly_ different than Varric’s. Varric has his mouth open to ask for clarification when Solas snorts. “You showed me what any Mage would be able to show me.” Standing, the bald elf makes his way to Flissa, leaving stunned women behind.

“So. What was that about?”

“Nerd’s in love, I expect,” Ava replies smoothly, lifting her cup to her lips for a drink. Nephele shoots her an irritated look, and it only solidifies Ava’s claim where the writer is concerned.

“So soon?” Varric chuckles a bit. “What’s a nerd?”

“A scholar, and love at first sight is a thing, you know.” Ava grins, smoothly commanding the blonde’s interest. “The mind knows what it likes aesthetically, Varric. It’s why you get people making fools of themselves over pretty girls and boys before they learn a thing about them. We are all rather animalistic in the drive to find a mate, we want the one with the best hair, the strongest look, the prettiest most symmetrical eyes, lips, hips, tits.” She shrugs.

“Solas is very symmetrical. And he’s obviously a learned man, which is right up Nephele’s alley. Ticks every damn box I know of that she’s got, actually.” Ava looks at her sister considering. Solas is took good to be true, now that she’s thinking about it. Knowledgeable, eloquent, quiet, masculine without being overly so… 

“Symmetrical? She likes that he doesn’t have a weird shaped head and his limbs are all the right size.” Varric’s brows are heading for his hairline as Nephele remains stoically uninvolved in their conversation.

“Yes. You like the people you like because they’re physically appealing and not deformed by your standards,” Ava replies distractedly. Perfect for Nephele. That could be one hell of a trap. It makes her gnaw on her lip. “Like, take me for example. I find you very attractive aesthetically. Sure, your nose has been broken one too many times without healing, but it adds to the charm of your otherwise perfectly even face. Well, not _perfect_ , perfection is often off putting, indicating this person is too much. Or otherworldly.”

Varric chokes on his shitty ale. She thinks he’s attractive. _She_ thinks _he_ is attractive. He’s heard of odder attractions in his life, but Ava should be after Curly if anyone. Curly was all tortured soul and too gorgeous to not be acknowledged across all the genders.

“I uh, think that trip through the fade might have addled you a bit.”

“What?” Ava looks at him, brows pulled together in confusion before understanding dawns. “Oh, shut up. You’re handsome just like Solas is handsome, just like Leliana and Josephine are gorgeous, and the Seeker could stop hearts if she wasn’t so disgusted with life.”

“Maker, Ava. You can’t just say shit like that.”

“Indeed not.” Solas intones sliding back into the seat across from Varric. “It will win you no favors to be known as admiring the Elven or Dwarva form. It’s not such an issue to find your own sex attractive –“

Ava’s eyes narrow dangerously and Nephele groans. “Solas, don’t get her started. Ava has very specific ideas on the nature of attraction, and how everyone who doesn’t see the merit in those views is obviously an idiot.”

“A fucking idiot, thanks”, she corrects her sister, tipping her mug at her.

“Attraction is attraction, just like love is love. I don’t give a fuck who you are, sometimes someone will walk into your life and slap you upside the head with how amazing or beautiful or both they are. There’s nothing wrong with it! People are assholes, and sadly, I don’t think that will ever change. It certainly won’t change how I live my life and how I love my partner or partners.”

“Ava,” Nephele sighs at the other woman. “You’re going to get us run out of town.”

“Don’t act a mouse –“

“I’m _not_.” Nephele sets her mug down on the table hard. “I’m no more likely to let some idiot bigot tell me who I can love than you are. But I also know that we are foreigners here, and that we were in chains a week ago. We need all the goodwill we can manage.”

“Fuck that for a joke,” Ava growls. “If they want us to close that gaping wound in their sky, they’ll take us as we are, and any attachments we make! It’s not them who might kill themselves shutting the damned thing.”

“Ava!”

“No!” She’s upset, and angry. Her hands slapping on the wood of the table. “We don’t know if we’ll survive closing the Breach. I’m not going to live my life until then cowing to their expectations. I won’t die like that.”

“Lark…”

She sucks in a breath, head hanging down. She’d forgotten Varric was here, and Solas. “Fuck. Sorry. I just. I’m going to the cabin.” Standing abruptly, she leaves the Tavern, steps quick, precise, her back straight and head held high. Let someone try to jeer at her right now.

Varric stares after Ava, frankly, floored. He hadn’t met someone with convictions that strong since Blondie. That had ended with a crater in the middle of High Town. Sure, it was a wild left turn to get to Ava, and she’s definitely not possessed by a spirit of Vengeance, but being that outspoken? It’s going to get her into trouble. He stands as Flissa is setting down their plates. Gathering his, and Ava’s he turns to the barkeep.

“I’ll bring these back. Diva got a headache –“

“Go on, Serah. We all heard her, girl like that needs a moment or two to cool off. And maybe something sweet to help her stave off that fear, hm?” His mouth hangs open as Flissa leaves, before he beats a hasty retreat to the Twin’s cabin.

“Shit.” Nephele leans her head in her hands. “I didn’t think we’d go nuclear before lunch.”

“Da’len, I have no idea what the word, new clear, properly means, but the context indicates you didn’t think the stress would get to you or your sister. We ask much of you both. You’ve made no secret of the fact neither of you are from Thedas proper. Your morals are going to be different; your ideas will be blessedly different. I think you will both be extraordinary for Thedas.”

Nephele sighs. “What does dalen mean?”

“Da’len, it means little one, generally elders use it to speak to those younger than them with a modicum of affection.”

“I’m probably older than you.” She rolls her head to look at him. To gauge his reaction. A raise brow is all she gets.

“I doubt that.”

“Bet on it?”

He laughs, turning to her, moving his plate carefully out of the way. “And what would you bet with? You’ve got nothing but your armor here.”

“Winner’s choice.” Nephele knows that this is a dangerous bargain. She’s very sure that Solas either is a God, a child of a God, or closely tied to something powerful. He hadn’t made a hasty retreat, and she’d noticed several recruits of an Elven persuasion leave the Tavern. But he’s still here. Cool as a cucumber.

“Dangerous stakes.”

“Call me a rebel, then.” Oh. That got a reaction. His eyes, he can control his mouth, his face, his whole body, but no one can control their eyes. He was intrigued.

“I’ll take that bet. We will compare ages at a later date, in a more private setting.” He holds his hand out to her, and she takes it in an instant, shaking firmly.

“You’re on. Now, what the hell is this we’re meant to be eating?”

He blinks, eyeing her plate and then his own. “Ah. It seems we’re being treated to mystery minced pies. They’re popular mid-week. The snow can only keep things fresh for so long.”

“Say no more.” Nephele gulps, eyeing the pie dubiously. “You live near a lake, that has serious ice in it, but no ice boxes?”

“Do explain.”

“It’s a two-section box. One has an ice block; bottom holds the food. Or, it’s a deep box, ice on the bottom, food on top of it.” She looks in her small hip bag for her fork. She promptly unwraps it from a scrap of fabric and pokes her meal carefully.

“It won’t bite you; you know.” He chuckles, amused despite himself. It’s odd, how often she makes him laugh. “And we haven’t any here in Haven that I’ve seen. In the fade, however, I’ve seen something similar. A cabinet kept cold by runes fueled by mages.”

“Oh. A fridge. Why the hell don’t they still have them?”

“Lost practices are abundant in this age. Fear keeps Mages collared, rather than allowing their magic to truly serve man, as the Chant of light preaches.”

She startles, a fork full of pie halfway to her mouth. “You’re Andrastian?”

“No. But religion is a fascinating topic, is it not?”

“A dangerous topic,” she replies, eyeing him carefully, considering him. “Back home, Ava and I made no bones about the fact we believed in God, and all the other Gods as well, for good reason. We had plenty of proof all existed, but there have been wars in our homeland, devastating wars over which God is the real one or ones. I wouldn’t think in Thedas, it is any different.”

He takes his bite of food, chewing slowly. Nephele eats while she waits for him to speak. There is a companionable, if slightly tense silence that settles between them. She’s sipping at her cider when he speaks again.

“I will not deny there is a level of danger to conversing openly about a lack of Andrastian faith. However, there’s also a certain degree of safety in it, for me at least. I am elven. Elves, Kossith, or Qunari, and Dwarva are not welcomed into Andrastian practice.”

Nephele swallows deliberately. “Could you repeat that?”

“I’m certain you heard me correctly.” His words are just ad deliberate as the way she’d swallowed.

“The Chantry only allows humans to worship?” She has to be sure before the cold roiling anger is allowed to spread through her.

“That is correct. Elves cannot join the Chantry, there is a single Dwarf in Orzammar that claims brotherhood, but there was some considerable persuasion by the Hero from my understanding. Outside of that, if we do not adhere to our cultural faiths, we are cast faithless into the world.”

Her nose wrinkles and her lips pull into a sneer. That was high handed and so typical of a church. She shovels a bite of the pie into her mouth. Frankly, it’s gross, but she’s also eaten worse in her life to this point, so she stomachs it. They need pepper, and a few ice boxes.

 _Doesn’t it just figure,_ she muses to herself _, that we’ve been set up as the Heralds to a racist God. Fucking perfect_. She pinches her nose as she chews, trying to stave off the anger she can feel just under the surface of her other emotions. She’s not especially successful.

“Let’s…table this discussion for another time,” she pleads after a few bites. Ava could have her public melt down over sexuality and racism. Nephele would make her melt down private. Why did everything in this place come down to racism? She’s starting to become rather worried.

“Of course. I understand you’re in a particularly precarious position on the topic.”

“You have no idea,” she mutters.

** * * * * * * * * * * * **

Ava is halfway to the gate by the time Varric catches up with her.

“Maker, Lark, give the rest of us mere mortals a chance to catch up.” He huffs at her. She’s only got a half a foot on him, but she moves like the wind itself. There one moment and gone the next. She stops abruptly when he speaks, chest heaving, face flushed.

“Sorry. Varric. I’m not good company right now.”

“Can’t be worse than when Fenris and Merrill were at each other’s throats.”

Ava shoots him a deadpan look, before conspicuously looking at her feet. Varric uses it as an excuse to look her over, but blanches when he realizes, she’s melted the snow around her feet. What the hell? He looks up at her, and she’s moving again.

“Come on, if you’re coming, Tethras.”

The walk to the cabin, one far outside the walls is quiet. Relatively speaking. They have to pass the training yards, and those are a clashing, crashing, wave of chaotic sound. Voices and metal just…everywhere. Even the rogues are loud. Which isn’t great. He’d need to talk to Curly about that.

When they’re inside, he sets the plates by the fire to warm up. Nothing worse than mystery mince pies that are cold. He’d learned that months ago. Clapping his hands to get imaginary dust off them, he turns toward Ava.

“Okay, Diva. Since when are you a mage?”

“I’m not. That – the heat? That’s just me.” She shrugs, ruffling at her curls.

“Uh. No. That’s not just a thing people do. Mages do that for sure, though.”

She growls, rolling her head back to look at the roof. “I’m not your average person.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “Got that. You walked in the Fade, apparently, got the glowy hand to show for it. You sing like nothing I’ve ever heard before. You’ve got to be a Mage. There’s not other explanation for it.”

“Oh yes there is.” She sighs and looks over at him. “My people called me Aphrodite at the end. It’s a title and a name. Born Ava, daughter of Aphrodite, later, take over when my Mother died. Well, it’s more…I ascended to her very vacant post.”

“You’re losing me.”

“I’m a God.”

“And I’m the Maker.”

“You could be, how the hell should I know.” Ava wrinkles her nose at him. “Would really throw that Roderick for a loop. But I’m serious. At home, I’m the Goddess associated with love, beauty, pleasure, passion, procreation, and fertility. Patron of prostitutes, my ancestor – she was born of Oshun’s casting off a mix of her and her lover’s spend into a Volcano, fully formed, fully grown. I don’t know how many Aphrodites there have been, but I’m the latest.”

Varric knows his liars, as a professional himself, he has to. But he also knows how to spot a story, and where to glean the truth. Ava believes what she’s saying that she isn’t a mage, that she’s a _Goddess_. He can’t wrap his head around it. She’s convincing, to a point.

“Lark, listen.”

“Varric, I swear to you I am not lying. I’m not human, and I’m not mortal. You’ve heard me sing –“

“Yeah. I have.” He says it slowly. “You’re alluring, your songs are the type to claw into people and make them listen. But, Lark – Ava, you can’t say shit like that. It’ll get you killed or kidnapped by some crazed Mage who wants to see how you tick.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t know what to believe at this point. I’ve seen a lot of shit.” He shrugs, wincing at the hurt look on her face. Her mouth is just barely tilted into a frown, eyes a little glassy. Her arms have come up to ward him off, crossed over her bust, as she leans back against the doorway into what he has to assume is their bedroom. Her legs are crossed too. Shit.

“It’s not you, okay? I pretty obviously think you’re something special. But this is a lot to wrap my head around. I’m old, and I’m barely dealing with all of Hawke’s shit and some of that’s years over. Talking Darkspawn.”

“What’s a darkspawn?”

“You – how old are you?!” He’s bewildered. Everyone knows about darkspawn. They’re what goes bump in the knight. You keep your kids barred in the house safe with stories of darkspawn. Especially this soon after a Blight.

“Eh,” she looks away from him. “How old do I look?”

“I’d say twenty?”

“That’s so nice. No. I’m quite a bit past twenty. But let’s go with a middling forty.”

“Ava. Seriously? You aren’t as old as I am. You can’t be and not know what darkspawn are.”

“I’m not from Thedas, Varric. We don’t _have_ darkspawn.”

“They’re…corrupted beings. There are theories of course. That Genlocks are corrupted Dwarves, Qunari become Ogres, which is why they’re so rare, that Hurlocks were Humans at one point, and shrikes were Elves. I don’t know if any of that is true. What I do know, is darkspawn are the stuff of nightmares. If you’re lucky, you’ll never see one. If you aren’t, you’ll never forget the sight of one. The smell will never leave your nose either. They crawl out of the dirt and just…destroy.”

Ava is pale. For as vague as Varric’s being, she has a pretty good illustration. Corruption could come in various ways, but crawling out of the earth? Destroying things just to destroy them? That’s some zombie shit, modern zombies that can run, kinda deal. Which, in a world with Magic, might be very, very accurate.

“Well. Fuck.”

“Sorry, kid.”

“Varric.”

“You look twenty! What am I supposed to say?”

“My name. I’m not twenty, I haven’t been twenty in years – decades!”

“How did we even get on this topic,” he grouses, moving to get their plates. “I wanted to try and tell you that I get it. What you said in the Tavern? I get it. You can’t choose who your heart sets on. Your brain says ‘that one’s pretty’ and then they prove worthwhile or you walk. Sometimes they hurt you too, because you don’t listen when they out right say they’re wrong for you.”

Ava winces, she knows that situation all too well. She was too well known, she was too pretty, she was too loving, she was just too much. All the reasons her lovers had left her. All the reasons that she hadn’t taken a proper lover in decades. Better to take what was offered in weeks or days of flings and subsist on that. She didn’t think Varric would know that pain. She’d known he was hurt, but, she’d hoped it wasn’t to do with love.

How silly of her. Driving force of interpersonal interactions indeed.

“It’s odd,” she states, taking the plate from him poking at it with a finger. “That in a place where you have so much variety in beauty, you’re all expected to stay in the beauty standards your societies dictates. It’s annoying. It’s short sighted. Beauty is subjective to a degree that frankly makes beauty a very nebulous concept.” She sets down the plate on the dresser behind her, looking for her cutlery.

“Nephele? She prefers the male identity in general aesthetics, but that doesn’t mean she’d be attracted to every man she comes across. She values intelligence and kindness over any sort of physical notion of beauty. She wants a little ruthless in her kindness, she wants a lot of curiosity in her intelligence and she wants acceptance of new ideas. That’s what she looks for in partners. It’s why she stays mostly to herself. Too often she finds Intelligence or Kindness and the lack of acceptance drives her away, the lack of curiosity bores her, the lack of ruthlessness leaves her open to attack.”

Ava tears a bite out of the pie with her fork. She walks around the three rooms of the long cabin as she chews. “I want. Gods.” She laughs at herself. “I like the physical packaging. I don’t think I’ve met a person who I don’t find pretty in some manner. Josephine’s eyes, Leliana’s lips, Cullen’s curls, Solas’ shoulders. Everyone has something physically that I like. It’s just the way I’m built. Personalities are what keep me or drive me away. Liars who lie for the sake of it. Not for me. Cruelty beyond reason, not for me. Lack of desire to learn and grow. I want adventure, I want …so much.”

Varric listens and wonders how it is she sits and flits with him if she wants so much. If she doesn’t like liars – well, he’s been out of the running from the start and that’s for the best. He knows himself well enough to know most women don’t want a rogue who’s lived this long without going legit, completely legit. He’ll never be that man, can’t be that man after everything he’s lived through, committed to.

“I want authenticity. If you’re a scoundrel with a heart of gold, just act it and I’ll love you.” Ava sighs and sets her food aside. It’s horrid. She misses salads, all that fresh green taste, she misses thee spices of Cuba and Greece. She wants Fufu and Moussaka and Feta.

“I don’t know if you’re going to find any of that around here, Lark. It shouldn’t be your focus, either. Not when we’re knee deep in intrigue, when our little organization is on the brink of going under before it ever floats.”

“I know that. The town will starve when winter hits if we don’t get supply lines up. We can’t get supplies unless we have cash. We can’t get cash until we drum up support. I somehow don’t see Leliana going around offering her services for the support of the country to back us. Cassandra might, but she’s very brusque.” Her hands rub at her face and Varric feels sorry for her.

“Guess it’s on me and Nephele then.” She laughs hollowly. “Close the hole in the sky so we are convinced of your innocence, join the Inquisition because otherwise you’ll be hunted down at every turn and we won’t help you. Do more, more, more, for no guarantees your life will be saved.”

Ava slides down the wall she didn’t realize she’d been leaning on. Her eyes water as the anxiety mounts, sharp pain beneath her breast stabbing at her. The feeling of ominous foreboding washes over her in waves she knows all too well. She sucks in shallow breaths.

“Varric. I’m fucking scared.”

Hands settle on her shoulders, and a body settles beside her. “Yeah, Lark. I am too.” He lets her cry without trying to make her stop. He knows what that kind of need is like. The crying, hopefully, will help.


	4. IV. Kindness does not Belay Brutality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ava and Nephele show they are not absent Gods when an opportunity to act presents itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here lies some gore. That E rating isn't for the Fade Sex (yet) or waking sex (yet). A little bit of that Scion grit is presenting itself. I tag it as World of Darkness, just because for me they're very similar in terms of gore/body horror/horror in general.

_“Maker save me!”_ The prayer screams through the sisters sometime in the night, sending them from pleasant dreams to the eyes of a woman being held down. It is a dream and reality all at once. Unwashed body odor surrounds the vision, frantic slapping and clawing along with short panicked breaths.

_“Please no. Please.”_

_“Shut up, knife-ear, this is all you’re good for_.”

Ava is the first awake, breathing hard, half paralyzed by the fear, but determined to get out of her bed. The armor colors, it was here. Here in Haven. The words reverberate in her skull as she pulls on boots and grabs for one of the swords left in the cabin for them. Nephele is beside her by the time she has the door opened.

“Did you see where?”

“Training yards.” They move quickly, Ava puts off so much heat the snow melts for yards around her, steam hisses between them thanks to Nephele’s _freezing_ fury. They are moving through the recruit’s tents when they hear a sobbing plea, and they burst into the yards.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Ava’s voice is toned, power fighting to get through.

“Herald! Nothin’ just some bonding with the recruits.”

“Get off him.” Nephele advances with Ava, and they shove the men away. Some resist, but it doesn’t do much against their strength. Whimpers greet the at the center of the group Ten men, one Elven youth on their face. Pants less. In the dirt.

“Don’t fucking _move_.” Ava prowls around the men, looking at their faces. “Rape is not tolerated here.”

“He’s an elf, it’s what they’re good –“ Ava had moved before she thought about it. She is in the face of the soldier, who’s face is draining of color. His mouth works soundlessly, because she has forced her sword through his gut with a calm that is not broken for a moment.

Nephele gently extracts the young man, and murmurs to him softly. She’s trying to find if he has any injuries. He’s reluctant to speak to her, more so after Ava pulls her bloodied sword from the body of the Soldier. All he does is cling to Nephele. He can’t be more than sixteen at best, and that is being generous.

“Who else,” she asks sweetly, purposefully meeting the eyes of all who are frozen in place, watching as the soldier staggers and collapses. Her gown is covered in blood now, her hand washed with it. “Who else thinks Elves are for fucking against their will? Who else thinks their ears make them fair game?”

Her eyes shine in the night, and several people take steps away. “Ah, ah. I said _tell me_.” Her voice goes tonal again, and she pulls on every ounce of will she has for this man. He would get his justice tonight. This one prayer, they can answer.

“T-they always want it, H-Herald.” A particularly small man at the back speaks. His words aren’t voluntary, her command has overridden his feeble mind and the grin she flashes is feral. Several gasp at the heat, warming their armor uncomfortably as she shoves them aside.

“Do they?” She asks so sweetly that Nephele flinches, standing and bringing the man with her as they go to Ava’s side. “Do they want it?”

“Did you ask for this?” Nephele poses the question to the intended victim and he sucks in a breath.

“No. No, my lady I wouldn’t. I’m here to be a soldier, not a ..”

“Don’t say whore.” Ava snaps. “You’re a victim. Anyone taken without an express _yes_ is a victim.”

Her eyes bore into the man now cowering before her. He can’t move. Not when she’s looking at him. She is burning him, just standing there, looking at him. She looks like a figure from the old chasined legends. Back lit eyes, wild hair like snakes in the gentle wind, her fury rolls from her in waves. He’s going to die. He dares look at the Elf who is shaking but can’t move either. The elf who still has no pants on; who leans into the woman who has eyes like ice.

“So. He is unwilling. You feel they always want it.” Ava shifts, and the soldier sucks in a shaking breath. Where was the Commander? Surely, they’d gotten him. He would stop this. The Commander was a godly man, had served.

“How many have you raped?”

“M-my lady –“

“How. Many.” The sister echoes, moving away from her charge, and circling him with her sister. The bite of cold of her makes him yelp. How had the elf stood huddled against her like that?

“T-twenty.”

“Twenty.” The first one is growling, and the other lifts her hand.

“Peace. I will take care of this one.” The words are so detached, so unfeeling. He pisses himself. It’s a strange sort of sensation. In the bite of the night the warmth of the liquid should be welcome. But the burn of that first one, it only soothes chapped skin before sting sets in.

The heated one relents and moves to the elf. “Are you hurt? Is he hurt, Neph?”

“He’s got some tearing –“

“Let me take the hurt away, shall I?” Her hand cups his cheek, and she glows. Glows so brightly for a moment, before the shine of her dies and she wobbles in place.

He’s allowed to see that, before he feels his armor loosen. It drops to his feet, and he whimpers. If he’s lucky, he won’t be stabbed in the gut. She’s go for the heart, a quick, relatively fast death. Maker, please let it be quick.

“It won’t be quick,” the one at his back, Neph, whispers. “Your prayers are mine, Gerent, and I will not answer.” Her hand, so fucking cold it makes him arch away from her, lands on his back. The heated one is watching. The men left are stuck in place. The levels of horror in his eyes.

“Please.”

“Should you not have thought of those you sullied with your body? They will never forget the moment you took from them.” The heated one is speaking angrily, heat radiating again. Several take a step back before she snaps her attention to them. “No one moves.”

“Maker – I’m sorry.”

“He cannot hear you. There is no Maker here. Only us. Only _we_ hear you and only _we_ will be passing judgement.” Nephele curls her fingers on his back and presses them in. His skin doesn’t give for a moment, but the chill of her – it’s seconds, uncomfortable seconds before the skin gives with little popping tears. His breath escapes him, and she shushes him, pets his cheek like a mother does their child.

“Hush now. Your penance begins when you go to the river, and there is no ferryman to take you across.” Her words are as icy as her touch, no warmth to her. No mercy as her fingers tear into his fat, fascia, and muscles. She digs in just enough to curl her hand around a hunk of flesh and pull it away. He cries out, something in his throat protesting. His muscles spasm and the pain makes spots dance before his eyes.

“Ah, I went too hard, there’s fat cell expansion from the trauma.”

It doesn’t stop her hand from returning, digging in again. He wants to run. Why can’t he run. Someone help him! His throat works, screaming this time. Why can’t he move?! Every thin in him is urging him to lash out, to teach the bitch her place, just like the elf. She’s nothing. But she is terrible as well.

“Shh. Even if they hear the screams, it won’t save you.”

The first scream that reached the upper reaches of Haven, had Leliana and Casandra up, Cullen not far behind, bursting from the Chantry. A runner meets them. They do not dispense with pleasantries.

“The Heralds. They.. I don’t know what they did, but they have soldiers captive who tried to rape an Elven recruit. One dead, one dying. She’s… fuck, she’s using her hands.” The scout is pale, and Leliana curses. This one is new, good at ferrying information, but untried when it came to combat by their own admission.

“We’ll deal with it. Go tend the Ravens.”

They thunder through the silence of the town. Not a door has opened, though there are murmurs as they pass near cabins. The screams are louder the closer to the gates they get. The scent of blood hits them as they pass through the smaller door cut into the great ones. The sight that greets them – is something else.

The young elven recruit is wrapped up in Ava, who has a sword limply held at her side, shining with browning blood. Her arm is painted red, also browning. Nephele cannot be seen, but a retched tearing sound makes even Cassandra flinch. As they navigate the oddly immobile recruits, some eight of them by Cullen’s count, Leliana’s gasp has him turning his attention to the horror show they’d been alerted to.

A snap sounds in the eerie quiet before Nephele looks up, eyes back lit in the darkness. She pulls, and the soldier under her hands coughs blood. Cullen has never seen this in his life. He has never seen brutality on this level. Even demons had more care for their victims than this, and he has seen them eating the dead.

She has broken the man’s ribs apart, pushing them outward, tearing his skin as she goes. On the ground, handfuls of bloodied …meat. There is no other word for it. His muscle, skin. It’s all there. Cullen’s saliva thickens and his throat works as he tries to keep his meagre dinner in his stomach. Her night gown is red, where it had likely been white at some point.

What is odd, more than her eyes, than this scene, is the way the snow is melting and freezing moments later. At least, it is odd until the Soldier is forced to his knees, grotesque wings fully unfurled. Her hand disappears into the cavity. None of them have to see to know she is attacking something vital. Her hand is wrenched from the soldier’s back, and he drops forward, stone dead. The ground is covered in blood, the faint smell of piss working Cullen over terribly.

Kinloch, Kirkwall. All that is missing is fear and the tang of magic. He lays down a smite before he thinks about it, and neither woman so much as blinks. His heart is in her hand, pouring his life’s blood down her arm. She finally speaks.

“Advisors. You’re here later than I assumed.” Her voice is …Cullen takes a step forward, hand on his sword. Ava is there, half a foot shorter than him, but her sword already leveled at him.

“Do not. Commander. We are the righteous here.”

He lays down another smite, almost desperately, and all Ava does is tilt her head. “The song in your blood is louder now. What is it that poisons you so?”

“What?!” Poison? Song in his blood? For a moment he disregards the fact the Heralds are abominations. Disregards the fact two of his men are dead and eight more are awaiting death. “Stop this.”

“Why?” The chill of Nephele’s voice reaches across the small distance. She comes to stand beside Ava and the clash of them produces steam. He is cool and too hot at the same time. The heart is handed to her sister, and Ava only lowers her blade to take it. “Why do we stop when they would not? One life for twenty, in that heart. Who knows how many the first ruined, sullied, and took?”

Ava considers the organ in her hands, turning to the elven man. “Your name, I did not ask it.”

“Hallen, my lady.” His face tilts up and the dim light of the stars shine on his Vallaslin covered face. He is young, the Advisors present cringe, and Cassandra curses. There is no saving the young from pain, but this pain, all should strive to do so.

She holds out the heart to the boy. “Hallen, your vengeance, a heart holds the soul.”

It’s the most disturbing thing, to watch the recruit take the heart from Ava’s hands. To watch as she leans forward and kisses his forehead. To see her move to the blood-soaked ground and dip her fingers into the muddy liquid, for her to move back to him and trace sigils onto his skin.

“Hallen, I claim you as my people. I will always hear your prayers, I will always find you, I will always protect you.” She intones the words with such finality, such conviction.

“Leliana.” The wintry soft call of Nephele tears their attention away from Ava. “String him up, please. You wanted us as Heralds. Our Gods are not your Maker or his Bride. We demand punishment for crimes, not prayers for mercy.”

“This sends the wrong message –“

“Then _we_ send the wrong message. We make no move to hide our natures from the lot of you. We told you, when we woke, we were not sent by your Maker. No God can claim us any longer because _we_ are Gods. Death and life stand before you as women, and you doubt. _We told you_.”

“The others need to meet their fate.” The scent of urine floods the area and the women grimace. “Such weak souls to name themselves part of the army of faithful. Such weak men to take what is not freely given. I will not stand for it. Hallen is mine –“

“My lady, let them live.” Hallen lays his hand over Ava’s. “Let them tell the rest what you are. You’re here for us, for the people, not the Chantry. You may avenge the Divine, but you’re for more than that.”

It seems the boy gentles them, if only a touch. They seem to be just women again in that moment, supremely tired, but just women. Ava nods, and Nephele sighs. It takes a few moments, before the men are on their knees. They beg and swear they will earn this mercy. It only makes the Heralds sneer.

“Touch anyone against their will outside a battle again, and we will find you.” Ava beckons Hallen follow her. “Come, our cabin is large, you will be safe under our care. Anyone who feels unsafe may make camp with us.”

“Must you draw lines in the sand.” Leliana moves toward the body, clicking her fingers. Her people melt out of the shadows, some very shaken, some quite approving.

“It is a worthy line,” Nephele barks. “Do not dare cross us on this, Spymaster. We don’t need you, remember that. You need us.”

The next morning, the Heralds are sent with Cassandra, Varric and Solas into the Hinterlands. There are more deaths within the recruit camps. Hearts all missing. Cullen finds himself pleading for temperance within the women called Herald.


	5. V. Seeds of Spring

“I should have taken up running again,” Nephele grouches as they reach their early evening rest stop. Cassandra has been a demanding guide to the Hinterlands. She’d been fine with the pacing, and the idea of getting to their first real look at Thedas, the landscape, the people, society. However, four days in, she’s agitated, sore, and frankly unimpressed with her diminishment into something resembling a mortal. Her mind lingers with a mild worry on the charge they left in Haven. But it swings like an off weight pendulum onto the dying. The farther they were away from Haven, the closer they were to this new and unknown region, the more she can feel the souls. There are hundreds upon hundreds of them, lingering begging for freedom from their bodies that are in immense pain. Souls that are restless, have been wronged and preyed upon. It makes her skin itch, but she can do nothing like this. She cannot send anyone on in this state, she cannot recall them to reconstructed bodies. She is useless. 

“You are very dour spirits,” Solas notes beside her, not attempting to admonish or inject any judgement into his tone. He might, later. For now, this is a prime opportunity for information retrieval. Of the two, Nephele is especially fascinating to him. 

She is so quiet, and full of surprises it seems. Here is a woman who is a healer, holding no magical spark in her soul, with an oppressive aura about her. She is learned, and excels at her profession. There are men and women in Haven she’d tended to that are alive only thanks to her expertise, and ability to quickly adapt. A woman has kept her leg that would have been lost without Nephele’s deft fingers sewing her back together. A young dwarf recovering from blood fever thanks to her application of herbs. 

Her mind calls to him. Her dreams are hard to find within the fade, but he has seen evidence of her, and Ava’s presence. But, it is not the mystery of her dreams, but her grim dispensation of justice that has him feeling a  _ need _ to know about her. His agents within the Inquisition had been keen to report to him of the women’s protection of a young army recruit. Each had gone into great detail of what was said and done. More than a few had been breathless with their unadulterated glee to see humans decimated for daring prey upon them. 

A bit of a worrying notion, as Solas’ reputation has been much diminished in his sleep, and while his ideals attract followers in droves, he has not been able to act in a manner that would galvanize and secure the loyalty of his agents. Indeed, none within the Inquisition even know he is their Commander, to them, he is just another face. So the Twins interest in Elven welfare is threatening and sliver of hope in equal measure. 

In his own mind, Solas is struggling to equate the young healer with the grim depiction of an Imperatrix standing over a corpse she’s ripped flesh off of. In Ava, he senses a kindred spirit. She is sweet, but beneath her skin, rage boils away. She defaulted to it so easily just a day ago, that her actions would not have ever surprised him. She is young still, though her aura marks her far older than any human in Haven. Nephele, her cold rage, has taken him by surprise. 

“I have reason to be,” she replies flatly. “There are racists and rapists within Haven. Eight yet live that should be dead, left to freeze beyond the borders of the town, or eaten by wolves.” 

He blinks at her blatant declaration they did not deserve to be ferried into a possible redeeming afterlife. Though she speaks in her usual quiet, and placid tone, there is fire there. “I had heard that rumor in the early hours,” he says slowly, as if weighing how to broach the topic of it’s veracity. Truthfully, he’s already played this conversation out several ways, attempting to anticipate and plan for the most likely scenarios.

“It is no rumor,” her accent has shifted, and her tone has become chilly. He can feel it as if they are back in Haven proper, nestled halfway up a mountain side, not down in the much more temperate and blooming valley. “My sister and I removed two problems. We meant to kill four more apiece, our hands were stayed only at our charge’s request. And for the pause the story will give those who think to overstep.” 

He hums, a considerate look upon his face. “You care so much for the Elven plight?” 

Her eyes cut to him, amber brown boring into him for a moment. “I don’t care what shape ears a person has, their genitals, how tall they are, who they choose to sleep with, how wealthy they are, or the color of their skin, no one should be subjected to such cruelty for cruelty’s sake. He called for help; I gave it to him. I will for anyone I can, and I fear I shall be busy.” 

“Oh?” He wonders at that prediction. Of course she’ll be quite busy, dealing with warring Mages and Templar that plague the region, and likely bandits. Unrest and war always resulted in desperate people just trying to survive. 

“Yes.” She says it so definitively, that his eyes narrow. There is something he is missing in this puzzle. The missing pieces accumulate as she speaks. “I will be called to the sides of many, and I believe Ava will as well. It is, a sense, of sorts.” 

“You are .. mystifying.” He plays at being a wondrous man. The less of a threat he seems to be, perhaps the more he will gain. She has alluded to her otherness, and he has danced the steps to allow her to speculate, to draw her in. “Humans do not use their power for the Elven People, I’ve found. I have seen much in the memories of the Fade, but Humans, Dwarva, and Elvhen have always been at odds with one another.” 

“I hardly think that’s accurate,” Nephele pauses, mindful of the guards who will catch up with them soon, and that Cassandra, Varric, and Ava will pull ahead of them. “There are half elves and half dwarva children in the world, there are a handful within Haven’s walls. I’ve heard less than kind or complimentary notions about them, but it simply proves they exist. Not all such children can be the product of rape and abuse.” 

“Outliers to the norm, I’m afraid. This world is not kind to anyone.”

Her brows pull together, mien thunderous as she cocks her hip, crosses her arms and tosses her hair. “What world is kind? My home, only knows humans, and we still have managed to break into groups to fuel an us vs them mentality and violent spiral. Sexual orientations war against one another, religions, nation-states, mortals will always find a reason to attack one another. It is the ones who find a reason to make peace that are that much more precious.” 

“And why did you give peace to the men who would have likely killed that boy when they’d used his body to the point of being broken?” 

“It was asked of me, by the victim. It is his revenge and justice we were there for. And, in the moment, their fear pleased me. I  _ want _ them to spread their fear of retribution among the ranks. I want them to fear what will be rained upon their head if they touch anyone without that person’s explicit consent. I want people to be aware of the pain and death they cause being so careless.” 

An auburn brow raises, he leans on his staff, considering her. “And what of the pain and death  _ you _ cause?” 

“It is my nature,” she replies, shrugging as she waves off his question. “I do not revel in it, but I accept it. Once, when I was very young, I hated it. I wanted, as I said, to be a healer, to fix and bring life, to be the exact opposite of what I am. In the years between, I have come to learn there is a need for me. People need something to fear to keep them from indulging their darkest desires, a name to pull out to ward off would be transgressors. I will happily be that name.” 

He pauses, remembering Falon’din, and how he had once said something shockingly similar. Death, a mercy and a punishment that his youngest brother had taken no joy in. But as he accepted the need for him, so too had a need grown within him for the blood spilled. For her to say something like that. He is suspicious. 

But, ultimately, Solas knows a trickster when he sees one. He knows rebellious spirits, and hers is one to be sure, and so strong hearted, but she’s no sly liar. She plays no games for the dark satisfaction of them. He does, as he watches her, and she him, wonder at her acceptance of her self professed nature. Old as he is, he still battles his predilections to make others squirm for the sake of it, and his ruthless responses to failure. 

He nods, after a few moments of silent consideration, and together they walk toward their fellows. Together they walk toward what will surely be weeks of blood, pain, and death. A small, dark part of him, looks forward to witnessing her capabilities first hand. 

While the Trickster and Death dance around one another, Ava keeps an easy pace beside Varric. They’ve traded stories all day, and she’d sang for him at one point. Her singing, it’s like a balm, and uncannily able to make him do things. If she sang and directed him off a cliff, Varric imagines he would fall with a smile on his face. It doesn’t bother him quite like it should. 

“So, Diva,” he starts careful, because he doesn’t know Ava well enough to know how to do this easily. “Your sister gave a man wings, and you gave his heart to a kid.” 

“Yes,” Ava shifts, not stopping walking, just pivoting and walking backward. She doesn’t like talking, he’s noticed, without looking at him. He’s not sure why, his chest hair isn’t on display half as often as people make it out to be, and to a human, well, that’s not attractive from what he’s heard Hawke say. “What about it?” 

“Seems a bit - dark,” he uses his words carefully, noting her lack of discomfort with the topic. He knew she was a warrior, but Ava gives off such a kind aura, like affection is all she wants to bestow on the world. It’s a bit difficult to reconcile her. 

“You give off an aura, Lark. You’re fun loving, romantic, nurturing.” His tone is the same one he used with Daisy when he was trying to steer her away from Blood magic. The same one he used when telling Broody to get out of dodge fast, because Hawke, Hawke was loyal until he wasn’t. 

“I do, and I am those things.” She agrees with him easily, in a maddening fashion, giving him nothing to work with. It garners her a scowl from her otherwise neutral or smiling dwarf. 

“You called yourself a God in front of the Seeker.” 

“You are  _ remarkably _ well informed,” her smile is sharp, eyes approving and predatory at the same time. Varric pushes down the threat of the rush of arousal as best he can, wondering where the young woman who flirted and sang so sweetly went. “You don’t believe in me yet, but you will.” 

“That - that’s not the topic here,” Varric blusters. He didn’t hear that he’d believe in her, that he’d call her Lady and give her hearts. He heard that he would  _ love _ her, the way she’d said it, the way she leans forward, eyes flashing, the hidden meaning is slapping him in the face. Damned if he could ignore it, too. “I didn’t think you’d have the stomach for it unless it was a battle.” 

“Varric,” she stops and he mirrors her, pausing a half arm’s length away from her. “I’ve seen many battles, and I hope to live to have to fight a great many more. I do not believe in second chances for those who commit sexual crimes. Especially if there is proof they’ve cast aside a chance to change already. Those men, and I use the word liberally here - all of them, are only useful to us dead.” 

He flinches. “That’s incredibly harsh, Ava. They’re people like anyone -”

“They’re  _ animals _ ,” she replies harshly, the ferocity in her eyes rocking him back onto his heels away from her. “They chose to rape and kill, no  _ good _ person kills for pleasure, no  _ good _ person removes a person’s agency to boster their own notion of power!” 

“So you’re just going to go around murdering people?” 

“I dispensed justice and saved lives, I will continue to do so whenever I can save someone.”

She’s not arguing with him, he sees that in a flash. Ava knows herself to be right, and he has no hope of swaying her. His mouth thins into a line. He’s killed at Hawke and Fenris’ side. He watched when Hawke gave Isabella to the Arishok to save Kirkwall, and thanked the Maker when she got away. Sending her cash for a crew. He’d watched as Hawke drove Blondie away, by then knowing better than to step on Hawke’s toes. He loved the kid, he did, but he made shit choices and respect, has nothing to do with affection. He tried to help save the Mages of the Gallows, only to have to participate in killing those that fell to blood magic. He wasn’t clean of blood by any means. But he didn’t bathe in it. He has this horrifying notion, that Ava would if it suited her goals and morals. 

“Handsome,” she sighs, and he blinks, the sweet young woman from the Tavern in front of him again. “I care deeply for my people, and  _ anyone _ made into a victim deserves justice. That boy needed me, needed Nephele. He has his life, his agency, his  _ mind _ still because of our interference. Would you rather him broken by a gang rape, or dead because he couldn’t be kept quiet?” 

“Andraste’s sword,  _ no _ .” He gags at the thought. Blood, gore,  _ darkspawn _ , he can deal with all of that, but not rape. He doesn’t enjoy death, but he can’t ignore it’s place. Rape, however, he can’t abide. He can’t abide the people who deal in it, and just the thought of it turns his stomach to acid. 

“Good,” Ava smiles, swooping into his personal space, her lips touching the corner of his mouth. His heart flops in his chest, and a throb of desire rolls over him before he can shove it down. “I’d hate for you to end up my enemy,” the whisper as she pulls away makes his heart stutter for entirely different reasons. 

** * * * * * * * * * * * **

They stop to eat and rest when the sun is highest. The sister’s are stretching out their legs, making sure they don’t end up too sore by the end of this trek. The morning had proven interesting, after a fashion. 

“You know,” Ava starts, settling into Greek rather than English, “I’ve been thinking.” 

“That sounds rather dangerous,” Nephele answers her, leaning forward to stretch her hamstrings, waiting for Ava to get on with it. 

“Hush. I think our problem is we don’t have a powerbase.” 

“No, of course not, we aren’t in our realm.” 

“Exactly. All of our followers are on some other planet, or perhaps dimension.” 

Nephele pauses in her stretch, eyes widening with the realization. She knew, of course, that the prayers she heard were like getting radio signals crossed. Tuning to a channel you thought was free and ending up in the middle of someone else’s conversation. They had no followers. Followers, devotees, a priesthood, all gone. Here, they were unknown. Here, no one knew their parentage or even believed it, with a Monotheistic church in power and the polytheistic beliefs almost seemingly erased. 

“You’re right,” Nephele whispers the words, shaking herself from her stupor. “We’re useless and mortal without the worship to strengthen the ichor that makes up most of our blood. It might be why we’re having so much of an issue and have reverted so much.” 

“We need to fix that, and get those priests out of our town.” Ava looks thoughtful. “But not before we learn exactly what the Chantry is in their eyes and the eyes of those outside it.” 

“You want to usurp them?” 

“I think we will, given time and some effort.” Her shoulders shrug. “The Inquisition is born of the Chantry, but it won’t stay that way. It can’t if we want to survive. This world is even less forgiving than ours was.” 

Nephele sighs, and Basil slips from the neck of her coat. Their armor was fixed, but Cassandra had insisted they could not wear something so ostentatious when they were a penniless organization. The result? The twins are clothed in mercenary gear that doesn’t quite fit and smells vaguely of hay. However, it accommodates Basil’s mass without letting on that he's there, so Nephele can’t complain. 

“You’re not wrong. We need people, Hallen will boost us, but one follower does not fix our problems. Like the Inquisition needs influence,  _ we _ need influence.”

“So we need to be proactive. Every errand, every need these people have, we need to make sure it’s met or done. I can’t coerce people with my song and hope it sticks. I can’t even seduce with my song right now, just sort of...boost interest.” And it irks her to no end. Ava is used to being the center of attention now, used to her powers smoothing otherwise jagged roads for them. 

“That means we’ll be here for weeks at least. That Mother we’re supposed to find, we need the information, we’ll have to go to the village to speak with her. We can bed down with the people there, make sure the village is secure before dealing with the threats Leliana mentioned. If we’re very lucky, we’ll endear the town to us enough that they’ll pray in our names.” 

** * * * * * * * * * * * **

They find bodies along the road. No one is surprised, least of all Cassandra. She’s seen what highwaymen and bandits leave behind more times than she can count. It is a fact of life. No one is guaranteed tomorrow. 

Even the twin heralds are not surprised by the family they find alongside the road. There is some evidence of a struggle, blood on the daggers the man and woman carry. Neither corpse has been here long, and shows evidence of - use. It makes the Seeker’s stomach turn. Such irreverence. Such cruelty. It only cements her convictions that those who do this, turn from the Maker’s side. 

“You have coppers?” Ava speaks lowly to Nephele, startling the Seeker. They’re moving the bodies, restoring some level of dignity to them. Cassandra watches, as they place coins atop closed eyes, and one beneath the tongue. They hesitate a moment. 

“What are your burial customs here?” Nephele looks to Cassandra and the Seeker blinks in surprise.

“The Fereldens burn their dead, as do many of the regions of Orlais and the Free Marches.” 

Nodding, the woman turns to their mage companion. “Solas, could you do them the honor of starting them on their journey?” 

It’s a request that everyone with them notices. Most would have simply passed by the scene, sending a momentary prayer to the Maker. The Heralds are demanding customs be seen too. Customs and rites that should always be observed. It’s a humbling, chastening moment. The Seeker wonders how many people she’s left to wander without helping send their souls to the Maker’s side. 

When she says as much, Nephele shrugs. “It is your, or rather, the Ferelden custom. But, burial within the ground is just as important. We live, we eat of the earth beneath our feet, we die, and the earth feeds off us. A sacred circle. Or, our ashes replenish the ground with needed minerals such, growing better, stronger crops or trees. Don’t fret so much, their souls go where they’re meant to go, it might just take longer. One can never be sure if the soul leaves when rites are cast or when the heart stops.”

That view is undeniably disturbing, but somehow comforting as well. To know you were still useful, even after you passed, was comforting. Not that she felt usefulness was truly quantifiable, but to her, in this case, it is. They leave the bodies burning, and continue down the road until they come across more of the dead.  This time, Nephele kneels beside them, a young girl, her mother or perhaps sister, and lays her hands upon them. It’s strange, to see her act as a Mother of the Chantry would, but without the Chant of Light leaving her at all. Her eyes are closed head bowed - lips moving - she stands abruptly, anger upon her face. 

“They are elven, and wish the old customs are seen to. They were trying to get to the Brecilian forest, to join the clan there. Templars.” Her teeth grit, jaw jumping, hands fisted at her sides. Her sister lays her hand on her shoulder, looking to Solas. 

“You are our only contact with any Elven culture, do traditions differ between clans?” 

Solas seems to startle, before he folds himself into his customary posture. “I am not truly at liberty to know. I haven’t had the opportunity to truly learn from any of the Dalish, as every attempt I’ve made to share knowledge sees me run from their camps.” A light sneer forms on his face, there for but a moment. It surprises Cassandra. He seems a placid man, but invested in the acquisition and sharing of knowledge among his people. 

“However, I stayed in the Emerald Graves, and watched the Elders perform rites over the fallen. I can do such for these women.” 

“Please,” Ava guides Nephele away.

They have buried and burned some sixty people by the time they made it to the base camp of the Inquisition. Cassandra feels ill, emotionally in tatters. The Heralds had stopped, every single time, to give death rites to the lost. She would not have stopped once, lest there was useful equipment to be had. They did take items that were usable, but they hadn’t done so without thanking the dead. Their respect - it sits in her gut like a weight. 


	6. VI. The Crossroads - beginning

The Hinterlands are rather vast, when one thinks about it. They encompass much of southern Ferelden with the bannorn to the north. Here, it is a little wilder, things are a little less well trod. Townships, hamlets, no great swaths or ports to build cities around. It should be quiet, peaceful, serene. 

But it is  _ everything _ but any of those things. This region is a battlefield, sorely used, it’s people are tired, strung out, losing hope. Many had fled the area, but the stubborn ones bear witness to the Inquisition’s arrival. Two women of the same height, hair wild, curling, almost the color of the dirt when the rains start in the spring, skin as tawny as a gryphon’s feather from the legends and tapestries. They are beautiful - even if their clothes are clearly scavenged. With skin so clear, and teeth so white, many wonder just what the women are doing here, with the poorest of the poor and fledgling army. 

It doesn’t take long for those people to have their questions answered. 

“Get the civilian’s out of here!” Ava is roaring at the ranged fighters. “Cover us and their retreat!” Her sword is dull in the light, not reflective like a new or expensive armanet, but no less useful. It is too long, but it needs only cut. She is ruthless as she engages the Templar unit that’s come for the Mages. 

“Split up,” Nephele heads for the Mages, taking Solas, and Varric, while Ava and their two scouts are sent with Cassandra. “Don’t let them flank, drive them into the River Styx!” The few close combat guards they’ve brought split equally between the two teams, and wonder where this River is. Her meaning, however, is clear. 

He’s never seen warriors like them, these women, they are something out of Legend. Not like the Hero of Ferelden, who came from living works, fighting the darkspawn like a demon with two blades. The Anana women are - awe inspiring. They seem to have little in the way of self preservation. One wrenches a Templar’s shield from them, and proceeds to use it as a battering ram. There are so few weak spots in the armor he isn’t sure what the point of getting them on their back is, until the point of the shield is wedged with unnatural strength under the Templar’s helmet. 

She leaves them in the dirt, shield now a grim tombstone, as she rushes to Cassandra’s side, placing herself at her third candle mark. The rogues have little chance. His aim is true, but the Herald’s is truer. The way she spins her sword in her hand, holding it like a javelin. It’s absurd, it shouldn’t work. The crack of the metal on metal, the bones she renders useless, the way the chest has caved in around the point where the sword met body - the  _ spray _ when it first collided. Smites are visible on the battlefield, panic clear in the yelled orders, but the Herald does not give them space to breath or regroup. She and the Seeker soundly decimate the group. 

The Scout is tackled from the side, lightning striking where he’d stood. Eyes with a strange back lit glow look down at him, and then are gone. A splash of blood hits his face. A mage - mid frost step slides i _ n half _ . He gags as the pieces fall and entrails fall out. It had been a ragged dismemberment, spine torn rather than cut, intestines and other bits a mess of damage. He rolls and retches before picking up his bow again. 

The other Herald is shoving away a Templar with an enraged scream. Her side is exposed, her blood sparkles like bloodstone ore in the light. She’s so small, and yet, as fierce as the Lion of Honnleath at least. She, the Diva, is there when his mind wanders and his arm is nearly torn off completely from a charging Templar’s hit. She’s there, hair like a curtain around her face, eyes golden, sweet words, a flash of warmth, and his arm no longer pains him. 

Cassandra is numb, truly. She watches the twins as they fight Templar and Mage without remorse. They beat the rogues into the ground for days on end, and do so, so they can gather wild vegetables and hunt for the town. To anyone else, it looks as if they’ve taken the wanton fighting between Templar and Mage as a personal slight. The town, they claim, is to be protected, aided, and rebuilt. 

The scouts and a regiment of soldiers are put to work, patrols are set, but no one is encouraged to go farther than the perimeter line. The townsfolk don’t question it. Glad, no doubt, for days of relief from the threat of death. Bodies are found, burned, buried, rites given, and the people, they seem to begin to love the Heralds. 

Giselle has been seen several times in the town center, aiding the healers, while the Heralds pass by her, arms laden with dirty vegetables or a ram slung over their shoulders, a yoke at one point, with water so the sick are bathed. They direct where the town should move their privies, and make lye each night, instructing it to be used to kill disease in the privy pits. She has not seen more humble noble women than these two in all her life. 

“Lethallin, sit still.” Solas fairly barks the words, sitting back on his haunches. Ava is a squirming, mess. Her laceration is leaking deep red blood that makes a few of the surrounding guards and townsfolk gasp. The woman herself isn’t speaking, a look of pained annoyance on her face. 

“I’m as still as I can be, Solas.” Her eyes slide to his, and he nods. Fine then, if she scarred, it was on her head. He reaches with his magic, the spell weaving together with just thought, and no need to verbalize it. When it touches her, there is a frisson that shocks him, as his eyes dart to hers, he sees it’s gotten her attention too. Her skin knits together quickly, like it was just waiting for a little bit of magic to nudge it into acceleration. It doesn’t take half as much mana as he thought it would, or it  _ should _ . 

He would have to ask them about that. Ask if Nephele had the same reaction that night. He hadn’t truly been paying attention to the length of time it took to heal the cut on her hand. The air had been too heavy with innuendo, and the question that hung between them. She was bold, to show him her ..oddity. Any Templar would have had her head in a breath. He’d never seen anything like what her blood did.

Not even the Blight changes the blood in such a manner. It did  _ change _ the blood, turning it to sludge, really, coagulated far before it’s time within the veins, spreading it’s disease into the flesh and turning people into creatures. It works faster in the shem’len than it ever had in his people. It worries him. Frankly, the Twins worry him. They are - equal to him, at this very moment, perhaps above him. 

“Thank you, el querido amigo.” Standing, she doesn’t give him a chance to even ask what she’d said, he isn’t familiar with the Antivan language, not as he should be. Perhaps he could ask Nephele…

“You’re all patched up.” Her sister appears by her side like a whisper. 

“Yeah. It fucking  _ hurt _ ,” Ava is honestly not sure how to deal with that. The initial laceration had barely registered with her, but afterward it had  _ burned _ angrily. She hasn’t felt something like that in a century and a half at least. Her pain tolerance had been good as a human, astronomical when she became more god than human and when she’d taken her mother’s place, pain was a bygone memory. 

“It’s supposed to.” Nephele intones drolly. 

“Screw you,” Ava hisses. “Wait until you get stabbed, then come to me with  _ esa meirda estupida! ¿Cuándo fue la última vez que sintió dolor?”  _

Nephele’s brows shoot up. Of the two of them, she is more prone to speaking Greek and Latin than Ava is. They’d been defaulting to Greek to keep people out of their conversations, but this? This switch from English into Spanish - that was their father showing through in a way it would never do in Nephele. It makes her smile fondly, sadly, a strange mix of the two at the same time. 

“It’s been a bit,” she allows as Ava pauses in her rant. “Do you miss dad?” 

That draws Ava up short. Quite literally, the other woman with her darker locks pauses walking toward their tent. “I hadn’t thought about him, in a long, long time. Why, are you missing Lucian?” 

“Immensely.” The answer is easy, shockingly so. Though, perhaps not so shocking. Her elder brother had been tasked by the previous Persephone to raise her, to make sure she lived up to Olympian and the Underworld’s exacting standards in their progeny. He’d been with them until the bitter end of their war. In a way, to their bitter victory. 

“Maybe we’ll find him. We don’t know if anyone else came through.” Ava’s nose wrinkles and Nephele’s brows pull together. If more had come through, where were they? And were they on the side of the Gods or Titans?

“Cassandra, we found the Templar camp.” Ava is breathless as she skids to a halt by their fire. “It’s far north of us, half a day, I think, if the directions are right. Past that ruined tower we found with the lyrium in it, but before the river. Ellendra is coming with us.” 

They’d met Ellendra, what, four days ago now, tucked up into a rocky out cropping waiting for her man to meet with her. She was an independent, not caught up in Chantry dogma  _ or _ Mage rights fanatics. A pacifist, or she had been until Nephele had brought a note and phylactery to her yesterday. Now the Enchanter’s heart burns with the need for retribution, against the Templars, against the Rogue mages in the hillside. Ava is all too pleased to give her that. 

“We cannot just take unknown mages into our ranks,” Cassandra replies sharply, facing the darker woman. Ava stands four inches under Cassandra, but oftentimes it seems to the Seeker she is a dozen feet taller. Not at the moment, however. 

“We can, and we should if we have an ounce of sense between the lot of us,” Ava replies tartly, hands settling on her hips, shoulders thrown back. “Any Mage that joins the Inquisition is one less we have to put down. Frankly, it’s the same for the Templars. If they have a change of heart, and want to fix shit, I’ll take them, the Inquisition should take them. We aren’t exactly overrun with recruits, our town is a  _ town _ not a  _ military outpost _ .” 

The singer pauses, contemplative, “I need parchment and a raven. We need to fix those damn walls, and push them out further. I refuse to just let us sit like ducks waiting for the slaughter.” 

The speed of the conversation change makes the elder (presumably) woman blink. “Herald, our walls are fine -”

“They really fucking aren’t. There are holes around back the smithy, they don’t go up the side of the mountain, we’ve got the actual soldiers camped outside of the town, not to mention who knows how many elves and dwarva contacts or service people. Our defenses are sad, like children in the sand, just waiting for the tide to come and wash us away. That is not happening on my watch.” 

Her voice is so stern that it actually gets Cassandra to stop. Truthfully, Cassandra is always thinking, always looking, alert, waiting for danger. She’s also been spoiled by working at the Divine’s side. She’s not needed to worry about battlements, or siege-proofing anywhere in decades. 

“Don’t even get me started on Seggrit and our lack of trade caravans. It’s ridiculous! If we don’t get more traders in, we’ll starve before whoever killed the Divine starts to worry about us. We’re dead in the water,” her words are harsh and not above a whisper, since they are in the town proper. “Have Commander break training for a fortnight, or rotate shifts, get those new willowy recruits some muscle felling trees and doubling our walls, I want Haven completely encased -” 

“Yes, and we need room for new privy trenches. Upwind of the town, likely behind the Chantry. We also need a bathhouse. Haven is to be our base of operations, we cannot let disease overrun us. If we can get some of the Mages in Haven to work their magic on the ground we can farm some of our own food. Mitigate the costs and time to get fresh food in.” The healer seems to just appear at Cassandra’s back and it’s unnerving. They’ve got parchment and are hurriedly writing in what looks like shorthand to Cullen.

“Don’t forget to have him fell trees for at least half a kilometer away from the walls, we need visuals if someone - anyone - approaches we aren’t expecting. A bear shouldn’t come near haven without our knowing about it first.” 

“Mm.” 

Cassandra sighs. It would seem the Heralds had more immediate priorities than the Horses they needed on the other side of the damned livable wilderness. Sucking on her teeth and clearing her throat to gain their attention, she meets their stares head on. “Have you spoken with the Mother?” 

“Oh. No. Not yet. There’s so much to do, yet. She’s still here, she’ll keep.” They wave her off. “Or just have her send the information to the Nightingale via Harding. We don’t  _ actually _ need her in Haven.” 

“Of course we do. She’s in good standing with the Chantry -”

“We really don’t give a  _ shit _ about the Chantry,” the pair cut the Seeker off in that eerie manner of theirs. 

“Frankly,” Nephele takes up their train of thought, allowing Ava to finish the message to Haven. “The Chantry is the root of your current problems as far as I can figure. It is amazing what one can learn just listening. The Chantry controls the Circles and the Templars, and pit them against one another at every turn. Or they turned a blind eye to rampant Corruption on both sides. They promote racism, species-ist ideals,  _ and _ classism in a single damning blow. We aren’t recruiting them. Ava, tell Josephine to start talking to the local lords, do what she needs to to curry their favor. We aren’t fucking with the Chantry, Cassandra, that’s bad for business.” 

“You. You are foreigners!” The Seeker is red faced, and the twins wonder if her blood vessels will pop what with her show of rage. “You cannot come in here, and, and just  _ change _ everything that does not suit you -”

“Why the hell not?” Ava blows on the parchment. “We’re foreign, yes, but we have clear eyes and heads when it comes to the problems people are facing here. Think about how many elves we gave rites to that showed signs of rape. Over half, Cassandra. It didn’t matter the gender. The Humans were under a quarter, just stripped of anything of value. And then, it was the women and children who bore the brunt of the abuse. It’s sick, it’s wrong, and it’s just one small problem on a veritable mountain of shit that needs to be fixed before anything can be called stable. The Hunters say that this land is technically under the Arling of Redcliffe - Where is the Arl then, hm? It should be  _ his _ army out here fixing shit.  _ He _ should be worried about how tainted the fields are and how many people have died under his watchful eye.”

Her arms spread and she turns around, eyeing the people that have paused to listen to the argument. “I don’t see the Arl of Redcliffe here. We are here. So we call the shots and we do it so this place is  _ safe _ ,  _ free _ , and _ protected _ .” 

Cassandra hasn’t got a leg to stand on. Her scowl is thunderous, but she follows the Herald’s will. They had been tasked with fixing the destruction caused by the breach, and that’s what they’re doing. Even if she doesn’t like the  _ how _ they are improving things by margins every day. If she turns her head when  _ Nephele _ claims Ellendra as one of hers, showing the Mage how to harness her rage and take the souls of the men and women who had wronged her man. Well. What hope has she of bending the Heralds into the shape she wants? They are a force of nature, and it is, admittedly, why she’d searched for Hawke and the Hero of Ferelden. They could and would move mountains. She just hopes, they choose the  _ right _ mountains. 

“You said you knew where the Templar encampment is?” She doesn’t stop them from sending the message, just like she doesn’t stop them when they split the group of four, Ava taking Solas and Cassandra while Nephele had Ellendra and Varric. Cassandra forces herself quiet as Nephele condemns the dead, seemingly calling one back to question the intentions of other Templars who remained together under the Lord Seeker’s banner. 

It is necromancy, but once more, there is no mana or lyrium in the woman’s veins. The unnatural nature of it all makes Cassandra shiver in her armor. But she stays quiet. The enemy of the Divine’s killer was her friend. So it would have to be, and she would bear the changes thrust upon Thedas to meet that end. Then she would address the unnatural nature of these women. She prayed it would come quick. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> El quierdo amigo - dear friend (m subject)  
> est mierda estupida - that stupid shit  
> Cuándo fue la última vez que sintió dolor - when was the last time you felt pain (roughly)


	7. VII. Return to Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in this chapter will be coming up again, and honestly is quite beautiful. Here is the link https://tidal.com/browse/track/95094929 annnnd if you're of a mind to know what music I listen to for this here is the playlist link https://tidal.com/browse/playlist/b160eb64-9944-4494-bcd5-395fb46addf1

Around day twenty of the Hinterlands expedition, Ava stumbles upon the legend of Tyrdda Bright-Axe. They’d not exactly been wandering the land slowly, but they could now that the Templars had been dispatched, and the Mages absorbed into their ranks. If Ava didn’t have a _voice_ , they wouldn’t have saved the Mages. Not the ones in the wood, nor the ones in the fortress that would house the township in the winter. With the Horse Master giving them a list of errands, however, they were roaming the countryside for more places for guard outposts.

Her fingers press into the weatherworn carvings, and a swell of love, of devotion, determination overtakes her. Even if she can’t read the script, she knows what it says. She calls to Nephele the stanza.

“ _Thelm Gold-Handed, fingers greasy, jeweled rings with glitter shone,_

_Took in tribes in times of trouble, fed them fat to weaken bone._

_Warriors great and great in number, sun-kissed swords to fight his wars,_

_Drake-scaled shirts their bodies covered; heart-wine stained the salty shores._

_Told his tribes a tale of treasure, over sea to north it gleamed,_

_Whispered words to drive the droves to golden city where he dreamed._

_Counseled quick in dreams alone,_

_Voices wiser man ignores,_

_Pushed the tribes until they screamed,_

_Heed the dreams and cross the Waking.”_

“A story,” Nephele remarks, eyeing the words on the paper once they’re in camp for the night. They didn’t bring parchment in their packs, but they would now. The ink could be made with ash in camp, so they wouldn’t be chancing It spilling. “Who do you think it’s about?”

“Someone we need to know about,” Ava replies with a shrug, stretched out on the thin bedroll. “Someone loved by their people, who had so many devoted to them they put up a statue honoring them. It calls me.”

“It’s been a long time since anything called you,” Nephele easily slips from common to their own Greek, leaning back on the pole of the tent. “This world really is making a place for us.”

“I think it has to,” Ava intones lowly. “I think we might be something new to it.”

“Why would a dead God’s story call to you then?”

“Never said it was a God. A leader maybe? A figure in the dogma of the natives? The naming, that’s not Ferelden at all, definitely not Orlesian and not Antivan…”

“Could be Elven, they travel in clans now, but before they could have had settlements.” A look flows between the sisters. Could have, but they feel it’s unlikely. This place, it was trying to stamp out the elves, at least that was the impression they were given.

“Maybe. It doesn’t _seem_ elven though. That artifact we found in the Hinterlands, the one Solas activated in the Mansion, and then one in the ruins – elven designs are fluid, following natural curves. Humans are all harsh brutal lines when stonework comes into play, and even here, in a decidedly impoverished area, there’s that same aesthetic. That statue didn’t show signs of a burgeoning brutalism, nor the quiet flow of elven architecture.” Ava rolls, leaning her head on her fist. “It’s a mystery, and I think we’ll like the resulting reveal.”

“You’re going to drag us all overlooking for more of these statues aren’t you.”

“Of course, I am.”

** * * * * * * * * * * * **

Twenty days later, dust covered and bone tired, Ava spreads the Stanza of Tyrdda Bright-Axe on the war room table. “I think an artifact is hidden somewhere,” she mumbles, a yawn cracking her jaw. Nephele is leaning against the wall, behind the Nightingale, just as tired as Ava is.

“We could have ask for help locating such any artifacts in the Hinterlands from the Bannorn, Redcliffe specifically.” Josephine points out the town at the western edge of the Hinterlands, closer to Lake Calenhad. “Your work in the Hinterlands hasn’t gone unnoticed. We’ve had several invitations from the local Lords. The Teryn of Highever wishes us to go to a ceremony for the late Divine –“

“We’d rather keep this in house, Ambassador.” Ava smiles gently. “I’m glad we’re gaining interest; it is why we spent over a month securing the region from anything that could hold a sword or a corrupted soul. We’ve made good headway on bolstering our numbers here as well. Commander, the walls are looking much better. I’m pleased we’ve got something protecting the overflow from what the village had originally been meant to hold. If you have some soldiers who are particularly scholarly, set them on this.” 

She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. Nephele doesn’t move, watching as her sister works, anything Ava needed counsel on wouldn’t be decided tonight, they’d talk, and then comeback. It’s how they always did things. “Right, the Teryn, send Roderick and the Mothers with a few of our Lieutenants and at least one of the Spymaster’s people. Embed the spy, and if we can, lose Roderick on the way back to Haven.”

“My lady?” Josephine is a bit shocked, but not overly so. Roderick was a problem in Haven, not-so-quietly becoming a thorn in their collective sides. But… to lose him?

“The enemy of my enemy is still my enemy.” Ava replies with a vicious look in her eyes. “If we must keep him, then he’s under guard here. Your updates in the field are telling. He’s going to be an issue. If we can foist him off on the Teryn, more the better. Have you all considered what we’ll do if this base is attacked?”

“Do you believe we’ll be attack here?” Leliana shifts forward. She saw the merit in allowing Roderick to live, it wouldn’t look good to kill him off. Lose him or allowing him to stay in the Bannorn would look less suspicious.

“We have no idea who killed the Divine, what manpower they have, what alliances they hold – **_of course_** I think we’ll be attacked here. This is a _village_ , and we haven’t got an overwhelming force. We have no visible watch towers, we have no stone fortifications, we barely have food to be frank. If I were on the other side, I’d strike now, while we’re building.”

“We did it several times in our homeland,” Nephele offers up. “Or we employed a Scorched Earth Policy. We must keep hold of the Hinterlands they can, if supplied with gold and the means, feed us and themselves. But our base here, is flimsy at best.”

The Advisors are quiet, shifting and looking at one another. None of them have asked either woman about their backgrounds. They haven’t even really asked _where_ the women are from. Someplace war-torn, and beyond the continent, they had, after all, been found in quiet ornate armor. Cullen clears his throat.

“We’ll need to map the area more thoroughly and discourage pilgrims from staying. The nobles are mostly gone, Orlesian and Ferelden. They stay a week at best to meet with Josephine before moving on. We can establish alert towers along the thoroughfare on both sides, fire signals. The recruits are shaping up well, if slowly, the manual labor is helping with that.”

“Our food stores are still terribly low. I haven’t been able to secure any contracts yet for such a supply route. I am hoping once you go to Val Royeaux and see the remaining Chantry officials that will change.”

“Why aren’t we courting Ferelden more seriously for aide?” Nephele asks, seeing her sister grinding her teeth. Food should be a priority. Coin would come, but right now they can’t have people becoming ill because their immune systems are weak from a lack of food.

“The Fereldens haven’t exactly bounced back from the Blight yet. That and the Mage-Templar war spilling over into this territory makes it less than ideal to court for influence or supply.”

“That’s a rather weak excuse,” Nephele replies. “If we can secure more regions of Ferelden there’s no reason for us to not court their support. If we don’t do so now, it will bite us on the ass later. Orlais is the Chantry powerbase, but Ferelden is weathering a war right now. I can’t imagine a people more interested in helping a standing neutral army in their territory, especially as we’ve spent forty goddamn days making sure a rather large region was secure.”

“I…” Josephine colors, and scribbles on her parchment. “I will send some people into the Bannorn and through to Denerim.”

“For now,” Ava intones tiredly. “Let’s all get some sleep and come back to this in the morning. It will keep, but I will not.”

She’s sat beside the door of their cabin, on a bit of wood that hasn’t been taken off for a fire. Hallen is still out, though Nephele is inside asleep. In her hand is a bottle of what passes for Mead here. It’s much better than the wine, but a far cry from the Ambrosia of their culture. The wind is chilly, like always in Haven, and she finds herself missing the balm of the Hinterlands. Still, it is good to be home, now that they are making improvements.

Swirling the bottle, Ava reflects on what they’ve accomplished. She feels stronger having returned to Haven. She feels less adrift at sea. A month was surely enough to be – settled. Which is such a strange feeling. To be settled somewhere, when had she last felt that? At home, they had been inches from death at every turn, a tangible end that loomed over them. Here, there is a foreboding, but it is somehow far flung. They would fix the food issue; they would fix the fortifications. The situation brings a song to mind, and there is no choice but to sing, and let that odd hope seated in danger flow into the air around her.

_“Y se va a quemar, si sigue a hi  
Las Llamas van al cielo a morir  
Ya no hay nadie mas por ahi  
No hay nadie mas, senta’ita dando palmas  
y se va a quemar, si sigue ahi.” _

Up in the town, where the Advisors are leaving to get food, finally, the echoing ethereal song makes them pause. It’s the kind of song that settles into your bones and drives your heart to sadness, with that hope that is just out of reach. Leliana tilts her head, looking to Josephine.

“Do you understand her? It is a bit different from what I have heard you say –“

“I do.” Josephine smiles, a melancholy expression. Her eyes close and she sways to the sound. “And she’s going to burn, if she stays there. The Flames rise up to heaven to die, there’s no one else around, there’s no one else, sitting and clapping. And she’s going to burn, if she stays there. The flames rise to heaven to die, there’s no one else around there, there’s no one else, there’s no one else.”

_“Por la noche, la Salia del Bagdad  
Pelo Negro, ojos oscuros  
Bonita pero apena  
Senta dita, cabizbaja dando palmas  
Mientras a su alrededor  
Pasaban, la miraban  
La miraban sin ver na  
Solita en el infierno  
En el infierno esta atrapa  
Senta dita, las manos, las juntaba  
Que al compass por bulerias  
Parecia que rezaba –“ _

Josephine sucks in a breath. “At night, she left Baghdad, black hair, dark eyes, pretty but sad. Sitting with her head down, hands clapping, while around her, they passed by, they looked at her, they looked at her without seeing anything. Alone in hell, In hell she’s trapped, sitting, clapping her hands to the beat of the noise. It seemed like I was praying…”

Josephine swallows. It is a dark song the Herald is singing, but oddly, it feels a blessing in her heart. That perhaps their sacrifices, their pain here in the Inquisition was not going unnoticed. That those outside their walls who felt hopeless and unseen by their protectors, weren’t. The Inquisition could see them. The Inquisition would help them, would pull them from the fire.

“An interesting song choice, for her first night within Haven’s walls.”

“I disagree,” Cullen murmurs, bringing both women’s eyes to him. “It’s… like a hymn.” He rubs at the back of his neck studiously not looking at his colleagues.

“An odd hymn then, no?” Leliana’s lips flirt with smiling as she watches their Commander.

“It is certainly no less odd than any of the Chantry’s hymns, no less dark or uplifting. This fits. It settles the heart. We are drowning, but we will not perish.” His shoulders shrug. “We should eat, before the kitchen of the Tavern closes, yes?”

“So eager for yesterday’s stew?” Leliana teases and loops her arm through Josephine’s walking them forward. Cullen simply rolls his eyes, following the two women, eyes straying to the point over the inner walls where he knows the Heralds stay.

“My lady,” Hallen whispers as he seemingly flows from the shadows when Ava’s finished singing. In his eyes, Ava’s song is a blessing. She’s returned from the fire, and they would rise with the smoke. This woman who sings, to him, glows in the low light of the night. She’s tired, he can see the circles around her eyes, but she is still unnerving in her beauty. Nephele is much easier to behold. There is something hard in this sister. Not what most would think having witness their justice.

“Hallen,” her lips have tilted into a slight smile, her greeting simple but a balm on his frayed nerves. The entire time they had been gone, he’d been hypervigilant waiting for another attack. No _humans_ approached him, thank the Gods, but many of the People came to the Cabin in the dead of night. “Are you well?”

“Yes, my lady.” He shifts on the spot, eyes shifting from her face to the snow. They shift back when she makes a sound of discontent.

“Don’t look down,” she says, a thread of irritation in her tone. “Never look down again, Hallen. You aren’t lesser than anyone in this town.”

“My lady, I would be wrong of me to look directly into _your_ eyes.” Brown eyes slip up to hers and skitter away. He could look at her in general, but to look her in the eyes – no. He won’t. Can’t. It’s wrong.

“As you will,” she intones, though there is a distinct air of pleasure about her now. “Have you been left to your duties? No attacks?”

“None, my lady. But, there have been… offerings.”

He looks up in time to see her blink slowly. Heavy lashes kiss her cheeks for just a half breath and then her eyes are opening again, and he is looking away. It’s reflex for him to cringe away from her when he hears her stand, when her feet crunch the snow toward him. But, no slap comes, no rough hand in his hair, or fisting of his tunic. A finger touches his chin, tilts his head up. Her eyes are there, and they glow.

“Offerings of what, little one?”

“Hearts, my lady, S-souls.” He swallows hard, focusing on her cheeks rather than her eyes. “Those that have harmed others. I, I tried to tell them it was _you_ who gave _me_ the heart to do as I wanted with. But, they left them for you and the Dread Lady. I..I packed them in salt, and left them at the back of the cabin.”

“Dread lady? You mean Nephele.”

“Yes. My lady. Harthe’asha.”

“And what do you call me, I wonder.”

“You,” he licks his lips nervously. “you are our Lady of War, Ashaortunan.”

She laughs, a sweet sound that brings chills springing up and down his spine. Of the pair of sisters, he would rather be under the Dread Lady’s eye. She is not fire, and she is not as coveted as the Diva. The Healer is less volatile. The Dread Lady may have butchered his attacker, but the Diva had given it to him, written on his face with blood.

“What did you do with the heart, little Hallen?”

“I…I ate it, my lady.”

“You are a delight.” Her breath fans across his cheeks, sweet like the wine in her bottle. Her praise delights him, makes his shuddering stop. He hadn’t realized he was trembling, but her approval lets him relax.

“Sweet boy, you ate his heart and took his soul. You won’t be taken advantage of again.” Her lips light on his, featherlight, a single moment in time that strikes him like lightening. There is something in the air. Something seared into his bones. She’s gone in the next moment. “Go sleep, my sweet boy. Have no fear. I will never harm you, lest you force my hand. I will always find you when you need me, simply call, I’ll come.”

Hallen backs away from the Lady before skirting around her and disappearing into the dark cabin. Ava heads back toward the encampment, away from newly reinforced, and moved farther from the cabin, walls. She dances between the tents, restless. She was exhausted, and starving. It’s a hunger she’d not often had to deal with on Earth.

Her hand buries in her curls, nails raking gently over her scalp as she sighs. She hasn’t so much as properly kissed anyone in over a month. It’s unnatural for her. On Earth, she was not at a loss to find a lover. Here? People look, but Hallen’s reaction to her is telling of the opinion most likely hold. He was deferent and terrified of her. Which was delightful, she had become the Aphrodite the Spartans lauded. War and love entwined. Fitting, really.

“My lady, you’re out quite late.” Rutherford’s voice jars her from her aimless wandering and frustrating musings.

“Commander. I apologize, I am exhausted but restless.”

“I am familiar with the feeling. It often plagues me.” His hands settle onto the pommel of his sword, and Ava finds herself wondering if he is ever without it. At least his gauntles are off today, tucked into the belt that holds his cloak close around his middle. Her head tilts, studying his hands. They are good hands, wide palms, fingers that are proportionate, not long like a pianist or painter’s hands, and not awkwardly short. His hands are clean, which is a bit odd for this climate, but Ava is certainly _not_ complaining at all.

“My lady?”

Her eyes jerk up, and she chuckles at herself. “Apologies, Commander, my mind wanders when I’m like this.” An understatement if there ever was one.

“I asked if I could be of use to you.” He smiles easily, and Ava swallows. She could think of _several_ ways she could put him to use. The hand still in her hand tugs at her curls. She would _not_ abuse her apparent station.

“Not unless you were of a mind to be,” she replies as tactfully as possible, the lightest pink coming to her cheeks. It’s been _decades_ since she was a shy sweet girl who flirted awkwardly. Perhaps, this is what Cullen would need of her, if they were like that. She’s done that before, adapted to the prospective partners. An instinct, not an insecurity. She’s made to be what others desire; she’s made for all desires under the sun. She’s not immune to Rutherford’s.

“I would not ask, if I wasn’t willing,” his reply is gruff, mild annoyance on his brow.

“So, you would take me to bed with you?” Her hip cocks out to the side, amusement all over her. Blunt, rather than dancing around things that is what he desires. It’s nice to be able to do this, anticipate and adapt without needing to think to do so.

“Maker’s breath, Lady Ava.” He is red around the cheeks. “You…”

“I need intimacy. Perhaps not sex, though sex is quite nice, but, I do miss kissing, and being held.” She shrugs, aware her views and needs are likely _not_ to be met tonight. Her eyes shift off over to the lake. It’s pretty at night, drenched in darkness, it glistens in starlight. Some might think it ominous but –

Cullen fills her senses, lips lighting on hers. It takes her by surprise, enough she pulls away for a moment. He is there, blushing, but willing. She watches as emotions cross his face, and as he begins to pull away, she leans forward, catching his mouth with hers. He smells of leather, and sword oil, a bit of sweat and some nature of pomade. His lips are a bit chapped, but not unpleasant. Lifting her hands, she takes hold of his cloak, pulling herself closer to him. His chest plate is cold, and unyielding as it ought to be. But his lips give, and take, and she’s absolutely thrilled with the way his lips work hers open.

For a man who seems so shy, he doesn’t kiss like a shy man. He kisses like a man who needs to take the breath from his partner for his own. His hands ar warm through the material of her tunic, and she’s lifted as he straightens. Her hands shift, an arm around his shoulders, a hand in his hair. One kiss becomes two, becomes three, becomes four, and five, and run together from there.

** * * * * * * * * * * **

He isn’t sure how he came to be wrapped around the Lady Ava. Spotting her wandering through tents toward the lake, he’d thought to just escort her for a walk. Her bald statement of her needs is refreshing. Too often people dance around what they want or need. He loathes it. She smells of horses today, hay from the stalls, that crisp sharp scent of winter from being outside. Her hair, however, that falls around them in a curtain, that smells of flowers, perhaps ember flower. It’s not important, but it is intoxicating.

Intoxicating much like the woman’s kisses. He’d thought at first, he’d overstepped, misunderstood what she wanted. But she’d been checking to be sure, he supposed, that he wanted to do as he had. Now, with her in his arms, he finds this is the best decision he could have made. Kissing her is like sweet wine at Satinalia festivities. She’s soft, silk over aurum, lips sweet with wine she must have had earlier. She does not allow him to lead but urges him on.

His heart pounds against his ribs. Cullen could see himself taking Ava to his bed. He is quite tempted to do so now. However, he restrains himself. It isn’t appropriate at this juncture for them to carry on so. Stolen kisses in the dark? That is a rite of passage for every youth, or pair of new lovers. Though, he cannot claim they are such. It’s difficult to pull from her, but he manages it. Barely. His eyes take her in, lips flush from their kisses, eyes brighter and somehow, she is much more relaxed than when they started.

The Commander’s traitorous mind wonders how she would look spread beneath him, tired from love making. A strangled noise leaves him, and Ava smiles, like she knows where his mind has gone. Gently, the blond sets the shorter woman on her feet. Her arms retreat from their places around his shoulders slowly, as if she is loathe to let him free of her. He likes that thought, that she might desire to keep him in her embrace.

“IS that sufficient, my lady?”

“It will tide me over for the night,” she replies softly, unmistakable desire in every word. “I may need you again tomorrow night.”

“As my lady wishes,” he finds himself smiling, pleased to have pleased her, and quite looking forward to the evening morrow.

She moves away from him slowly, dainty little steps until his arms have to retreat from her. He is quite reluctant to let her go, something he hasn’t of late had experience with. The few times he had a lover in his life, their unions were rushed, they always left one another’s bed quickly. Now he wants this ethereal woman to stay in his arms until they are both sick of it.

“Good night, mi comandante. Sleep well.” The words are a kiss on the air, and he stays watching her until she’s swallowed by the night.


	8. VIII. Minutia

Solas prowls the Fade looking for one or both of the Twins. He knew they dreamed, the residue of their minds made bright spots within the dreamscape, which is quite a feat for women without an inherent connection to the Fade. He knew this, because those bright spots had a distinct feel. Not the same feel of different mages, but a different texture, feeling, and even taste. He has been on this quest for their dreams for weeks. In the field, he was distracted by the battles between the Mages and Templar, all that echo earlier battles in the regions, as well he’d been looking for his Veil tools.

Now, however, he can scent the quiet Herald, Nephele. Of the pair of Heralds, he finds himself most interested in the woman called Dread Lady. Perhaps it’s her name, perhaps it is her cold anger, perhaps it is just her that ensnares him. Ava may be the Herald who works in the light, but he’s watched Nephele since her waking. Nephele is the one who digs into the dirt for the bones, sorrows, and secrets. Nephele is the one who hides behind her quiet nature an eager and quick mind, even quicker than her sister’s.

Her dream simply bleeds into the raw Fade. It’s not a bubble, there are no walls to this dream, it simply crops up amongst the stalactites and stalagmites. A curious thing, memories are easily found just walking, but not dreams, not like this, not anymore, at least. Stepping into her dream requires no finesse or skill. He simply walks into it.

The room he’s in is, well, like nothing he’s ever seen before. There are lights that make no sense, buzzing coming from them, rows upon rows of plants under them, a childlike Nephele moving between the rows with a pile of bound papers. She is draped in white, hair piled atop her head, deep dark circles under her eyes. There is a frantic quality to her movements as she observes and writes on her tablet of paper. He steps further into the room and her head snaps up.

She is wearing glasses, black rimmed things, that are new to the dwarves, only recently coming into fashion among the nobility. These shine like no metal he’s ever seen.

“Solas?” Her head tilts, eyes bright with wary curiosity. “Why are you in my lab?”

The Wolf debates, for a few moments, if he can actually lie to this woman in her own dream. Is it worth whatever retribution she will levy upon him if he tries and fails? He licks his lips and smiles lopsidedly at the Herald. “I was curious, Lady Nephele. You don’t allow people to know you –“

“Why should I give away all my secrets, Solas?” Her arms cross, the tablet of papers now pressed against the chest.

“There is no mandate on it,” he soothes, hands out in surrender. “But I can’t deny I wish to know you better. Where better than this lab of yours?”

“My plants don’t give up my secrets either,” she murmurs, watching him as he advances toward her plants. “Don’t touch that –“ her words are sharp, and Solas stops moving, hand outstretched over deep green curled leaves.

“Why not? It looks like Elf Root,” his ears twitch, eyes shifting between her and the plant.

“It’s not medicinal,” she moves with a sigh, reaching out with her very strange quill, to coax the leaf into unfurling. “Look,” she nods the implement tracing over the veins of the plant. The touch, he notes, makes the leaf flex, and the veins shift, they are noticeable but become… they look blighted. It makes him draw back, unease taking over his curiosity.

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure,” she murmurs, pulling the pen away. “I came in today, and this plant started acting strangely. It is creeping Ivy, and yet, it’s behaving as if I’d crossed it with a more carnivorous plant. It doesn’t wilt when touched, but that odd darkness in it, it’s growing, it’s a disease I haven’t ever encountered before.”

He reaches for her, hands on either arm as he draws her away. “It looks as if it is blighted,” her eyes, sparkling brown diamonds lift to his and he sighs. “Come away, and I will tell you what I can about the Blight.”

She is uneasy, leaving her dream, but he does get her to cross the threshold, immediately drawing her into a dream of his making. He didn’t need her to see the raw fade, to question things when he had such dire information to give to her. He brings her to a library, likely long fallen into considerable disrepair, left in mountains for thousands of years. If the books are there, they will be holding on with a hope and prayer.

“Where are we?”

“My personal library, in a home I can no longer claim as my own.” He guides her to the shelves, watching with interest as her fingers reach to skim the bindings. There is a hunger in her eyes he can appreciate, having the same desires himself. But he guides her away after a few moments, settling her onto a rounded, tufted cushion that she, slight as she is, sinks into. Taking a seat near her, he takes a breath.

“The Blight. You will have heard mention of it several times before now, I am sure.”

“The Advisors gave it as a flimsy excuse for not courting Ferelden’s favor, though we live in their boundaries.” Her displeasure with that is clear, and he doesn’t fault her for it. It’s folly to encroach on the land of such a fiercely protective people.

“You have no doubt seen a bit of the scarring? Sickly slow growing plants in the much less dense woods?”

“I had noticed it. There is a whisper, fading, in those places.”

That is interesting. He presses on, noting he would need to ask her about these whispers. “The blight is said, in popular history, to have been created by the Maker as punishment for the Magisters who breached the gates of the Golden City, turning it forever black. They were thrust back onto Thedas, and corrupted.”

“Interesting. A legend, I presume?”

“One of many,” Solas is pleased with her deduction, though a little surprised.

“My people have many legends. Followers of the Christ Child give an extinction level event Godly origins as well. A single Family saved for following God’s orders, and they help to repopulate the Earth after saving two of every animal and sailing for forty days and forty nights on flood waters.” Her thin shoulders shrug. “An interesting story, but not true.”

“Indeed, this one holds a kernel of accuracy, however.” Loathe as he is to admit that the Chantry was not completely wrong about something, especially the Blight. “Magisters did walk in the raw fade, and did walk into the Black City, there are many a spirit who remembers that day. They were arrogant in assuming they would find their Gods, ancient spirits who had been trapped long before they were ever a people.”

“The Blight, it is much older than the legends would have you believe. There are memories within the dreaming of it, dating farther back than the first murmurs of the first humans on Thedas. When Elves almost exclusively ruled the forests, the length and breadth of Thedas. Even then, there was a corruption that could not be explained away by the legends known today. One of the Creators, as the Dalish name them, was corrupted by what is now called the Blight.”

“One of the Dalish God’s fell to this?” She leans forward, eyes bright, papers on her knees, pen now moving across the phantom paper.

“Indeed, the Huntress. She wanted power, you see, the power to take on any and all who would defy her. She wanted, to destroy the cousins of the Creators, the Forgotten ones. In the time of the Creators, the Forgotten ones provided balance. The Evanuris, or Creators, provided such balance within themselves, but would not check one another if such a need came about. That was the unspoken treaty between the two factions. If the Evanuris had a member go off the rails, the Forgotten ones put them in check. That is until the Evanuris banished the Forgotten ones past the Void.”

“That’s quite a lot of information,” Nephele says after a few moments of silence from Solas. Behavior like this, she doesn’t expect from the Enigmatic mage. Though, this information is general in nature, it is not about _him_ but information he has access to. Information that she apparently needs. Yet, he is still freer with it than she’s known him to be – when they were traveling. When they were in Haven. Her eyes flit around the room. This place is not a place she’s been to. Solas had said as much.

“Where are we.”

“My library.” He tilts his head, just slightly, ears twitching. It’s cute, she decides, and there is not much about the man that can be called such a thing. He is far too _much_ to be cute.

“You don’t own a home. I went to sleep in Haven, that’s the last thing I remember before my lab. A lab that doesn’t exist in Thedas – “

“You are in the Fade.” He doesn’t attempt to keep up the pretense of this being real, which Nephele is quite happy about. She’d bee quite vexed had he attempted to lie to her, especially when it’s so obviously not real.

“Ah. A dream, right? So this isn’t real.”

His brows draw together, a scar puckering above a brow. He isn’t pleased by that, and it makes her wonder why. Though if Solas is Solas, he won’t directly say so. That isn’t his modus operandi. Condescend, skirt around the idea of truth, generally defy every readily accepted behavior of elven people – that’s his modus operandi.

“A dream is as real as the apple you eat, da’len.”

“Dreams are proven to be neurons firing off at random to help the mind make sense of the day’s or week’s stressors. They aren’t reality.”

“I do not know what a neuron is, but I assure you, a dream is as real as the Waking world in Thedas. Spirits, they roam the Fade, dreamers as well if they have the willpower to do so. Corrupted Spirits also linger here, looking for hapless dreamers to trick into a deal and gain dominion over the body and mind. If you are killed in the Fade, you die in the Waking. If a spirit overtakes you in the Fade, it overtakes you in the Waking.” Her eyes narrow, and his narrow right back at her. Her mouth opens, and they are launched into another round of debate about real vs not real.

** * * * * * * * * * * **

Cullen is out of sorts as he patrols the newest outer walls of Haven. He didn’t know what had possessed him earlier. The Herald had been often seen with Varric, and it’s well known that the pair flirt endlessly. However, she had implied she _wanted_ him to take her to bed. His hands run through his hair as he walks, the promise of a headache building behind his eyes. Ava had readily accepted his kisses.

This is just, not how he usually comports himself. He may be the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces, but he wasn’t of an ilk to carry on with the Herald. Perhaps especially not Ava, who from all the reports has taken on a command roll between the Sisters. Nephele certainly didn’t melt into the background, but to him, it looked like a well-worn system between the pair. Ava took the attention, Nephele gave the advice and interjected when needed. Nephele struck from the dark, forgotten as a threat.

But that doesn’t matter in this. Nephele, from all reports, had little interest in _anyone_. She cared for their charge, and spends time debating with the Fade expert, but otherwise keeps her council. The Commander isn’t particularly worried about getting a visit from the ‘Dread Lady’ for kissing her sister. Or for kisses of her own.

“Maker’s breath,” he murmurs, thinking of the kisses shared with Ava. He would happily do so as often as she professed a need for such attentions. And that – that isn’t something he normally indulges in. He’s had relationships, of a sort, but none so …abrupt as this. It had taken ages for him to be comfortable with the Templar lass he’d been involved with for a time, and that ended quickly because of the Kirkwall rebellion. She had followed Meredith. He could not stomach a moment more under that Tyrant’s thumb.

Ava. Their Lady of War. The Diva of the Inquisition. Beauty that didn’t have an equal, even her sister paled in comparison. Which was so strange to him. They are the same and yet, different, Ava with golden threads in her near black hair. Nephele with red in soil brown locks. Ava without Freckles, Nephele with plentiful decoration. Ava’s lips, pinker, like a ripe fruit, Nephele’s eyes with secrets.

“Haven’t seen you so pensive since the Seeker rolled into Kirkwall, Curly.” Varric’s voice jars the Commander from his thoughts and his face heats. Of all the people to come upon him tonight, it had to be Varric.

“I have things to think about,” Cullen shrugs his broad shoulders. Ava’s scent lingers on the fur around his collar. Blast it. “Contrary to popular belief, I am not a golem.”

“Didn’t say you were,” Varric replies with a laugh. “If you were, who has the control rod? Seeker? Because that’s terrifying. No, I just saw you out here, staring at the lake for a rather long time. Thought I’d come out, see what had you so still.”

To tell the truth and shame any demon of lies, or embrace that instinct to hide what was on his mind? “The Diva.” It would do him little good to attempt to hide from Varric. The man had a more impressively extensive network than Leliana, and a far more loyal network. If he wanted to know, Varric would find out.

“Ah. Lark is captivating, isn’t she? Makes you think things you thought were out of reach.”

Cullen shifts to look at the shorter man. “That is… remarkably accurate.” He sighs and shifts his stance so his legs will not lose circulation. “She is like a storm you cannot deny.”

“Yeah. A nicer, prettier, version of Hawke. More loyal, some how even more stubborn, and hell bent on changing things in the best ways she can fathom. She has this … aura, I guess. She just reaches into you and takes hold of your heart for her own.”

The golden-haired man shifts, making an uncomfortable noise. Is that what had happened just a few candle marks ago? Had Ava been reaching for his very heart to claim him in a similar way she’d claimed Hallen? In the way she had apparently claimed Elendra while in the Crossroads. That unsettles him. That he is simply part of a growing collection of people Ava has claimed as hers. He doesn’t even know what that truly means.

“Don’t look so sour.” Varric is looking at him, hazel eyes knowing in a way that Cullen isn’t sure he wants to name. “Ava’s weird ability, I don’t think she abuses it. Her draw, that’s just her. She might think it’s something divine, but that’s just her as a woman, frankly. She’s impossible to ignore. Equally impossible is not wanting to be near her, in her good graces. I’m actually a bit terrified of what she would do to me if I decided I wasn’t going to agree with her and her views.” The chuckle the gingery blonde lets out is uncomfortable.

“You think she’d harm you?” Cullen finds _that_ less likely than Ava being divine in some manner.

“I think she and Nephele will remove anyone that proves themselves to be a threat to their plans. It just so happens their plans align with the Inquisition’s right now. If they didn’t, I don’t think either would still be here.”

“They weren’t really given a choice in the matter.” Cullen shifts uneasily. Leliana had relayed their decision, and when he’d questioned it, she’d given that smile that said it was best if he didn’t ask questions.

“Maybe not. But they aren’t from here, their magic isn’t normal, and those women are only in Haven because it helps them.” Varric grins. “I admire it, actually. I admire Ava, choosing to become the face of our group, and using it to her advantage.”

“You seem fond of the Herald.”

“Who isn’t?” That knowing look is back and Cullen huffs in annoyance.

“Good question.”

** * * * * * * * * * * **

“Spymaster, could this not have come to us while we were _in_ the damned Hinterlands?!” Ava would very much like to rest her head against the wood of the table. Truly, information about a Grey Warden (whatever _they_ were), in the Hinterlands to recruit would have been much better sent to them while in the field rather than waiting, languishing, until they returned to Haven. It sets a dangerous precedent besides, that they weren’t to be informed of prudent information while they were in the field. The way Ava sees it, they’re the ones being made to make decisions, so she and her sister are in charge. They make the rules, not Leliana, or Cassandra, or Josephine. Cullen gets to make the Military decisions because he’s been appointed Commander, but even then, Ava knows she has final say.

“I didn’t think it important enough to bother you with at the time. Though the Warden contracts are quite attractive, there haven’t been many seen in years past. Blackwall may not be willing to help us.”

“Right,” Ava draws out the word and her eyes shift to Nephele. She isn’t pleased either. “ Θα το διορθώσουμε ή θα το αφήσουμε να λέει ψέματα, Nephele?”

“Επιδιόρθωση.” Nephele’s voice is flat, her irritation clear to Ava at the very least.

“This misstep will not become a habit,” Brown eyes find and hold blue. “We send you updates when we’re in the field, we send directives, you will be doing the same for us. This doesn’t work if you’re keeping information from us or treating us like loyal dogs.”

“Lady Ava, I’m sure that’s not what –“The Ambassador looks quite scandalized by that notion, and Ava snorts.

“It’s exactly what she’s doing, don’t make excuses for her behavior, Ambassador.” She shifts her weight by sliding one foot slightly behind the other, arms crossing over her chest. “In fact, I think she counted on us being annoyed with this little power play.”

Leliana gives nothing away, and Ava feels her respect for the Spymaster tick up a few points. Her eyes move, Nephele is drilling holes into the redheads’ back. That would be a good partnership. Leliana dealt in secrets, and later would likely be dealing in dispatching their enemies within the upper echelons. Nephele is nothing if not helpful in that respect. Shadow workers.

“The Spymaster will send all relevant updates to Nephele, and you two will brief and debrief, as necessary. I imagine it won’t be for months, but eventually we will have the means to split myself and my sister up. We’ll be able to cover more ground that way if one stays within the stronghold and the other goes out into the world. It also gives us another layer of security.”

Now the Spymaster’s eyes narrow. “Lady Ava, though you and your sister are quite the mirror image, there is the fact there are marked differences between the two of you. Your hair, notably and attitudes.”

Nephele pushes off the wall and comes to stand between Leliana and Cullen. “You would be quite surprised at the lack of attention to detail people pay us. At first glance we’re identical, it takes a few more to notice the differences. As long as we choose who each of us entertains and continue on in the same manner for subsequent meetings, our differences are a non-issue, Spymaster.”

Nodding in agreement, tucking darker curls behind her ear Ava looks at the map. “We’ve secured the Hinterlands and must go to Val Royeaux on the off chance the Chantry will deign rescind their condemnation of us. After that, I suppose it best we head straight for the Storm Coast.” She traces the paths illustrated on the map looking for the best route. “It looks like we must follow the Sulcher’s pass, yes?”

“That will add a day onto your trip,” The Ambassador replies, she traces a path through the Dales to the crossing to Val Royeaux, “this route is more direct.”

“As far as I’m aware, we are not on a timetable, the meeting that Giselle spoke of is not for another month yet, they are gathering the Mothers of the Chantry that were not commanded to attend the Conclave. I did not misunderstand that the Hierarchy is somewhat simple, did I? The Divine, the Grand Clerics, the Mothers, and then initiate sisters and brothers, and acolytes below them?”

Leliana leans forward. “Where did you learn that? You and Nephele claim no roots here –“

“I speak to people, Spymaster. Varric is a font of knowledge.”

“As is Solas,” Nephele intones softly. “For all the pair of them are ignored by the illustrious society Thedas houses, they are well informed, and have no qualms about sharing that information. They may not be teachers that are approved of, but they are quite a bit better than walking in blind at every turn.”

Swallowing back a laugh at the censure in her Sister’s words, Ava taps the Imperial Highway. “We’ll go this way. The road is clear cut, and the Orlesians will see us coming days out. I don’t really enjoy the idea of sneaking into Orlais via the pass past the Temple. It will look as if we have something to hide, and we’ve got nothing to hide from anyone. We can stop at the towns along the road as well, see if we can’t do some errands for either Coin, Recruits, or Promises for the Inquisition.”

Leliana and Josephine look at the map a moment before they look at each other. That road would put them on the path to Orzammar. If the Chantry didn’t support them, then the Templar within Haven would have no source of Lyrium. Their _Commander_ would have no lyrium. Perhaps it was best the Heralds take the road there and back, with a stop along the way if necessary.

The Commander clears his throat. “As the Lady demands. The Imperial Highway is the easiest to traverse, but it’s not without its drawbacks. There are far more bandits who will take the opportunity to relieve you of your armor, horses, and possibly lives if they’re of that leaning. I’ll send a contingent of guards with you and the others.” He holds up a hand when he sees the Heralds begin to protest.

“My Ladies, they will see it as a reprieve from hauling logs and felling trees after Morning Drills and before the evening ones. A trip to Val Royeaux is something most of our soldiers would never afford, for various reasons.”

They nod together and that is that.

“We’ll need to send scouts along the road toward the Storm Coast. I know we have reports of rifts in the Area already, but these rifts are far too isolated.” Ava taps out the markers for the rifts.

“I agree,” Nephele gestures vaguely at the map. “Ferelden isn’t anywhere as vast as Orlais, and yet we have so few reports of rifts here. Arguably Ferelden is ground zero for the rifts, we should have scouting parties running up and down Ferelden for a few months. Then we can move them into Orlais. Realistically, we need to deal with those on our doorstep first.”

“As you wish.” Leliana is quietly impressed with the women’s assessment. She had traveled with the Hero for a year, and Jessa had not shown such a depth of initiative, and she was now Queen. She’d made the hard calls and choices of who to place on Orzammar’s throne, saved the werewolves, humbled Zathrian… The Twins hold that level of promise and much more.

“Lady Ambassador, I know you’ve sent your people into Orlais, but we need them drawn back and sent to Denerim, the Bannorn, even a few into the Free Marches. We cannot be seen to favor any country over the other.” Nephele shifts Josephine’s markers toward the west away from Val Royeaux entirely.

“Do you really think that is best? We will eventually have to deal with the Chantry wanting to elect the next Divine. It would be best if we kept abreast of that activity.”

Their noses scrunch and a look passes between the Twins. They didn’t care what the Chantry wanted, nor did they particularly want to be seen as if they did. They were building a powerbase for _themselves_ not the Chantry. But they apparently cannot simply say that. No one believes them, save perhaps Solas and those of the Crossroads. Though, the people of the Crossroads aren’t entirely convinced yet either. It would take them an inordinate amount of time to overpower the Chantry at this rate.

“No,” they sigh after a moment. “The Chantry is apart from us. Even if they do decide to cast their support onto us, we don’t know exactly what that support will be. Access to their archives? People? Lip Service? Money? We have more pressing concerns then courting an organization that is in just as much a disarray as we are.”

“We’ll go find the warden,” Nephele sighs, “And then carry on to Orlais. We’ll pass by the village of Redcliffe on the way. Though I doubt the Mages have responded to our inquiries thus far?” A simple look at Leliana has Nephele nodding, curls bobbing with the motion. “We’ll pass by quickly, so as not to put them off. In Val Royeaux for a day or two, depending on how things go and then on to the Storm Coast. We can stop in at West Hill, and Dragon’s Peak Bannorns before coming back, we should speak with the Arls of West Hills and Edgehall to foster trade with them. And before anyone asks, I _read_. We were in Haven a few days before our first mission, and we’ll be a few more before we leave again. There are books in the Chantry, you know?”

Ava snorts, a hand coming up to hide her smile. This is the most active Nephele’s been so far in their little meeting. It’s also very evident this world is either without Coffee or it’s so expensive they can’t easily get it. The level of snark from the other woman is usually much lower. Truthfully, Ava’s feeling the lack of caffeine in her life too. She’d lived off coffee, tea, and five-hour energies well into her fifties and sixties, before she’d adjusted her food intake for her energy output. Here there isn’t a lot of food unless they went out hunting while on the road, and frankly the Maiden’s food is suspect. So, she is running at a significant deficit, _especially_ without anyone about actively loving her. The kisses last night had given her a boost, but if they were going to regularly be in the field, she couldn’t count on Rutherford to give her physical affection.

“Ava,” Nephele snaps her fingers in front of her sister’s face.

“Sorry, what?”

“We’re breaking for a while, the Ambassador, Commander, and Ambassador all have missives to give out and squads to send off. Let’s go scour the library some more.”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” Ava’s eyes find Cullen as he ducks out the door. She’d find him later. Perhaps, she could convince Varric to spare her a kiss or five, or even a tumble. She’s almost certain he’d give her far more energy than Cullen could presently.

“You’re very distracted,” Nephele notes, as they leave the War Room ( such as it is ), and head down into the dungeon area.

“I’m tired. I’m sure you are as well?”

“Not quite as tired as you, I think.” Nephele gives her sister a good once over. Her skin is dull, curls sagging a little more than they ought to for having been freshly washed. There is an air of despondency just barely hanging around Ava as well. “You’re not flourishing here.”

“I will, give me time,” the other woman waves off the concern with a strained smile. “I just… need to find someone to keep me from withering, that’s all. I have some possibilities, it’s just with all the travel –“

“This is the one aspect of being a child of Aphrodite I am pleased to have missed out on. Perhaps, since you’re the War Lady, you’ll begin to feed of battle instead of lust soon.” It would be a boon if that happened. This place seemed to breed war more than it bred people. If the War aspect of the Love God could take over, it would solve a minor problem for them. It would also garner more prayers.

“Heard that did you? I quite like the idea of being called Ashaortunan. Perhaps I’ll become Our Lady of Victory. What say you, Dread Lady?”

“I say it will be a rather serious help to grow beyond the purviews we were born into. We’re the only of our kind here as far as we know, and there’s so much _room_ to be all that we could ever want to be. We just have to oust the others from their Lauded halls first.”

“That’s rather ruthless of you,” Ava looks over at Nephele. Nephele who isn’t quite a dull as she tended to be on Earth. There is a vibrance in her know that hides her sharp edges. It doesn’t hide the feral light in her sister’s eyes, however. That is bright as ever.

“Persephone would have been proud, finally.” The fairer twin rolls her eyes and jimmies open the lock of the library. There are oodles of books in the little cell. And no small amount of coin. The ‘real’ library held the various histories of the Chantry, the Exalted Marches, and other travesties. Down here, this library held the histories of Ferelden and oddly, Antiva. There were books on the Dwarven guilds and a slim volume of poetry claiming elven origin. The pair paw through the books carefully, looking for one to catch their interest, their conversation falling to the wayside in the pursuit of knowledge.

“Oh,” Nephele pulls out a quite thin volume. “The Chasind. Who pray tell, are the Chasind.” Flipping open the little book, she dives into one of the least talked about tribes in Ferelden. She settles into a corner of the cell, engrossed in the short but consuming tale of how the Alamarri tribes split.

Ava eyes her sister, fond amusement making her smile. Turning back to the books, her fingers drift just shy of the titles and spines. Some of the books are meant for the magically inclined, some are frivolous, some reek of propaganda the Chantry would rather be forgotten. “Canticle of Shartan…” There is almost a whisper about the book, calling for her. She doesn’t know if it’s War or Love that makes her grab and open the book and falls into Shartan’s life.

_“For twenty days and twenty nights the People ran, with the footsteps of the legion ever at their backs. No rest could they find, since their flight from Vol Dorma. The People cried out in despair: Alas, that we ever left Vol Dorma! Better we had died there than to be hunted like sport on the plains. Among the People some began to whisper of returning to the city and throwing themselves at the feet of their former Masters and Shartan heard them.”_

It’s some time before either of them surfaces from their books, only to go on a quest to find other information on the subjects they’d started with. Nephele has better results, there are a few legends of the Alamarri, and a Treatise on the Avvar culture in the piles of books that liter the cell floor. Ava is practically tearing the cell apart to find anything on the Exalted March led against the Dales, or the account of Andraste’s rebellion that isn’t the Chant of bloody light. She comes up with a few of Genetivi’s books, but his writing leaves much to be desired.

Leliana appears in the doorway of the cell much later, filling the exit with her quiet dangerous aura. “Ava, Nephele, we need you in the War Room.” Turning, she’s gone almost as silently as she came.

It’s hours later, after a questionable round of savory porridge the twins are making for the inner Gates of Haven when they are stopped by a familiar bald head. He greets them with a nod before his storm grey eyes settle on Nephele. “Dread Lady, may I walk with you?”

Ava’s eyes light up, mischief on her face as she backs away a few steps. Nephele barely notices. She’d been meaning to ask Solas if he’d dreamed in any Alamarri camps or ruins. She nods her ascent, walking when he leads her away from the Gates back into the depths of Haven. Ava watches them, curious as to when _that_ became a thing, when a familiar song reaches her ears. Turning, she finds a distracted Commander wandering toward the gate.

“Commander, have you got a few minutes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Θα το διορθώσουμε ή θα το αφήσουμε να λέει ψέματα - Do we fix this or leave it  
> Επιδιόρθωση - fix it. 
> 
> These are approximate translations, if you speak/write/read Greek and have a more accurate translation, I am all ears for corrections. 
> 
> Usually these chapters are my favorite, but really I just want to get them on the road again and into places we didn't really explore during the game. Part of me wants to skip Val Royeaux entirely, but part of me knows I shouldn't. Enjoy the chapter gentlereaders! Feedback is always welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back to Cloud sees a prompt and has the perfect OCs ( thank you Scion tt rpg ) to fit the bill so the idea actually takes hold. Hopefully, I can keep hold of the muse long enough to see their stories through to the bitter end. Bear with me, I'm rusty at this novel but fic and as always, I have no beta. Yet. I may find one, one day. 
> 
> Prompt: This has been knocking around in my head for a while.
> 
> So, kind of like a modern girl in thedas situation, but instead of a person, it's a god.
> 
> However, no one really believes that they are a god because the fade is interfering with their power. Until they physically go into the fade and boom! All the powers! How do the companions/LI react to that?
> 
> Bonus stuff  
> \- Inquisitor hears the prayers of whatever god they are (e.g. god of death/justice etc)  
> \- Inquisitor shocked when they get hurt (fight? Stubbed toe?) for the first time.  
> \- In the fade, the inquisitor has no time for the nightmare demons shit  
> \- Sexy times.
> 
> Elvhen translations will be courtesy of the Lingojam Elvhen translator, Fenxshiral's lexicon, book of names, and language expansion.  
> Qunari and Tevene: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebour/pseuds/katiebour and a healthy dose of Latin translation for Tevene


End file.
